Random Acts of Madness
by RuthieGreen
Summary: 1903 How do William, Julia & Station House No. 4 solve crimes when reasons for committing them might be deliberately random? Spoiler alert for George's new sweetheart. Set in the week between S9:E17 & S9:E18 Finale. Enjoy the mystery & the history. Thank you to Maureen Jennings & the show writers/runners (even you, Evilpete) for these characters & MM FF writers who played along!
1. Chapter 1

**NOTE: Spoiler alert: This story fits directly between Season 9 episode 17 & the finale, assuming they are about a week apart.**

 **# # #**

 **1903 - Random Acts of Madness—**

" _Better to write for yourself and have no public, than to write for the public and have no self."_ _―_ _ **Cyril Connolly**_

 **# # #**

 **-Chapter 1-**

 **Monday night, October 19, 1903**

 _ **# Writing #**_

 _ ********* I cannot believe how the idiots are dawdling! Don't they have some place to go? Everyone else packed up promptly at closing. Look at the three of them laughing and bidding each other adieu, as if they like each other. I see them smile and fawn… and I see their jealousy. Hypocritical fools—the worst kind. Egos as thin and fragile as eggshells… no, I can't use that, eggshells are strong. Egos as frangible as sugar lace, yes…that is better. They'd shatter as well as melt into nothingness, having begun existence as a simulacrum in the first place. Charles Colton was wrong. Their imitation is not a sincere form of flattery, it is pure laziness. I am not lazy. I will do the work my audience craves. My legs are cramped from standing still but it won't be long before the interior lighting goes out row by row. I am feeling lucky; by sheer chance there is no moon to speak of and once the long yellow lights that punctuate the side of the building are gone it will be easy to slip through the streets and arrive just in time. And there they go, finally! The Bishop, the Bride and the Bavarian.**_

 _ **Now I can go for the Busybody.**_

 _ **Staying ahead is easy because I am willing to cut through where there are no fences, over the dry grass. My heart rate hardly jangles, just seems to push my legs in ground-clearing strides. I have already peered into the house and picked my weapon after pacing off the route; preparation done rapidly but well. I am sure I have put experience to excellent employ. I try to slow my breathing before the Busybody jerks down the lane with her familiar scuttle. I am surprised the belabouring of my chest is loud enough in my ears to cover the noise of her approach—must remember that. Head down, she never sees me waiting and I think it odd she does not hear me broadcasting my heart and lungs. Apparently she is not as observant as she thinks she is!**_

 _ **I have no trouble at all timing my rush up the stairs to coincide with her pushing her door open. I have her shoved in to the kitchen and against the counter in a thrice, my energy propelling her with more force than I anticipated. My eyes are well-accustomed to the low light. Even so, in the dark I only appreciate a slight gleam off her round eyes and her mouth in a toothy-wide, soundless croak as I pick up the nearest heavy object, which seems to weigh nothing as I swing it up. There is no crack of bone, hardly any sound at all, but of course the weapon slipped a bit in my sweaty hands. There is more of a noise when she clatters to the floor. You can imagine my disappointment when I saw her stir. Another blow stopped that, and it sounded similar to a mallet at the butcher's, a certain light crunch and wet thud. So little bleeding! I also wondered before about people's bowels and bladders letting go and the other little details of expiration but the layers of fabric she wears frustrate my investigation, beyond noting a certain whiff of excrement. Too bad the light is insufficient for further visual study but I will not risk more than quietly absorbing the atmosphere and cataloguing my reactions for inspiration, before cleaning up. I am inordinately pleased my hand betrays not a single quiver as I write this, and I wonder if she will cooperate and stop breathing before my time with her is over; actually I hope so, to make the most out of this opportunity... ********_

 **# # #**

 **Wednesday Morning, October 21**

"William?" Julia asked as she stretched her length along her husband's side, skin to skin, and lightly scratched his chest. Diffuse light was coming into their bedroom, not quite making shadows, but bringing some definition to their intertwined bodies and the drape of the sheets. Her blonde head and his dark one were placed on a single pillow; her lithe body fitted his masculine, more muscular one perfectly.

"Yes, Julia?" William stroked a hand along his wife's long hair, his attention slowly returning to the day ahead of him. Between plans for their house and cases at work he had many problems to happily occupy his mind, once he could focus again.

"I wonder why we bother to dress in night clothes—they never stay on…" Julia laughed contentedly.

William almost gave his opinion on the wisdom of modesty considering how often they were interrupted by work in the middle of the night, and mention how much pleasure he gets from divesting her of said clothing, but by now he (usually) recognized a rhetorical question from Julia when he heard one. He checked on her just in case, but she did not appear to be waiting on a response. He smiled. _Good._ Gathering her closer he judged by the light that they had a few more minutes to hold each other in the afterglow of making love before rising and getting ready for work, as he already heard footsteps in the hallway from staff bringing newspapers and breakfast to other residents. There was not enough time to bother getting redressed this morning, even though they usually did. It was just after dawn, he thought, perhaps 6:10 or 6: 15 am.

Julia enjoyed the quiet enfolded in his arms, but found herself in a teasing frame of mind, thoughts travelling to the events of last evening. She simply could not resist. Making her voice warm and playful she said, "I also wonder if George and Miss Bloom are doing what we are this morning?" She felt William's breathing halt and arms twitch slightly, loving how predictable his reaction was to her attempts at drawing him out of complacency. _He is more Puritan at times than Catholic,_ she thought. _Fortunately he is open to a certain alteration or two…._

William knew his wife was trying to get a rise out of him, probably was already aware of his involuntary responses, and sighed. "Julia, I don't believe it is appropriate to speculate on such matters, especially since he is both a coworker and friend. It seems unfair to indulge in prurient interest." He shifted out of their embrace and sat up, ready to get his feet on the floor, and shot her a sideways glance to calculate if he should go farther. He added an insouciant angle to his brown gaze and made his lips into a quirk to soften the delivery. "Childish, too…" and got swatted by her for his efforts. "Besides, that is entirely why I am concerned about his reputation. We of all people should know how hard it is to rebuild once damaged." He kissed her then stood, grabbing a robe to cover himself, and helped her rise from her side of the bed before padding over toward the bathroom.

Julia threw her next comment towards his back. "Well, I quite like Miss Bloom. She's refreshing."

The sounds of the shower were already going when William poked his head again out of the door. "She reminds me of your sister…" He shut the door quickly to avoid the pillow Julia launched his way.

 **# # #**

Detective William Murdoch sat at his desk and sorted mail after conducting Station House No. 4's morning report and assigning duties in lieu of Inspector Brackenreid, who was at an early meeting in City Hall. Usually disinterested in these conferences, today William spared some thoughts for the outcome: a new Chief Constable was needed, and in general they were selected from the current roster of Inspectors. Since Brackenreid was responsible for taking Chief Davis down, there was some speculation he would be tapped for the post. It was all hush-hush for now, which of course meant that the rumour mill was running wild. Constable Jackson even said there was a good sized betting pool going. It went against his grain, but William did allow a small moment to consider if he would be promoted along as well. And, surprisingly, he was ambivalent about it in the extreme. Pushing those thoughts aside, he finished the mail and picked up the final draft of his report to the crown on the Burke assault case.

Constable Henry Higgins and Constable George Crabtree were also working on documenting evidence at their usual facing chairs, their customary chatter muted today. Generally William was grateful for the quiet, but the obvious tension between them was making everyone uncomfortable. He was trying to decide if he should do something about it, and if so, what, when Constable Worsley put his bright red-haired head through the doorway. "Yes?"

"Sir. Dr. Ogden wants you in the morgue. Here is the autopsy that goes with the Flanders's case." Worsley approached with a folder, received the detective's thanks, and exited the office in such a way as to avoid brushing by Crabtree and Higgins who were starting to mutter to anyone who passed them by.

His wife usually just used the telephone these days, so he was curious she sent a messenger to fetch him; but no matter. William was happy for the distraction. He fetched his hat and traipsed over the laneway to the morgue and down the ramp to the autopsy floor, where Miss James and Julia were discussing the pros and cons of using a Gigli saw versus a serrated edge hack saw for amputations. Julia looked up with a smile and asked Miss James to pull the sheet over the corpse down far enough to expose the victim's head and neck.

William saw both women were already in their Holland aprons. He bade Miss James good morning and asked Julia, "What have you, doctor?"

Julia made the introductions, gesturing to the figure on the gurney. "Detective, please meet Miss Victoria Morgan, recently deceased assistant librarian from the Toronto Normal School, just north of here."

William held his hat behind his back and his face in a neutral expression. "Yes? Whose case is this?" he asked.

"Actually yours, William. Or it should be." Julia put her hands on her hips. "She was brought in this morning."

He blinked. "What do you mean, brought in?"

"She was sent over from Toronto General Hospital about twenty minutes ago and it took a while to sort out the problem." Julia pointed to the wound on the side of the corpse's head.

"Why was I, er…why were _we_ not called to the crime scene?" William peered at the head, which was shaved and sutured.

Julia explained: "She was found late yesterday morning in her home by her supervisor at the Library. He went to look for her when she was late for work. I don't have the whole story but supposedly he broke down the kitchen door and found her, alive but unresponsive. He ran out, got a neighbor to help him and rushed her to the hospital. You can see she has had medical attention. The wound has been cleaned, pressure from the subdural hematoma was relieved and she got some stitches. The initial speculation was that she slipped and fell, or actually that she was drunk and fell, but the attending physician was suspicious of the circumstances. She hung on for a day but died earlier this morning. After some wrangling, the hospital wanted a formal autopsy and the attending physician just sent her over to see if I would do one." She looked down again. "I say I agree with his assessment. From my preliminary examination a simple fall is not likely. I thought I'd let you know if you wanted to start an investigation. You are already a day and a half behind and much of the evidence is compromised."

William was instantly running the problems through his mind. "I trust your judgement, doctor. So likely homicide it is. What else can you tell me?"

"Look for an object that is circular or semi-circular as the weapon. I will have much more after a full autopsy, of course. And I already asked the hospital to hold her clothing for you—it was not sent along with her body. Here is the name of the doctor who treated Miss Morgan, and the victim's address," she handed him a note. "And please bring me her chart which the hospital will release to you along with her belongings."

He looked at the note, and placed it in his dark blue jacket pocket, before consulting his timepiece. "Excellent. I will make sure of that. I will check in with you later then?" He nodded politely to the two women, turned and made his way back to his office. Back in the Station House things were no better between Henry and George, but at least the inspector was back. William walked into his superior's office and noticed the man was dressed in his best business attire with new cravat and waistcoat, and in an upbeat mood…unusual after one of these sorts of meetings.

"How did things go, sir? Any news?" William asked, not certain he wanted to know.

"Let's just say it was interesting. But no. No news. Things move slower there, than even you do," Brackenreid said good-naturedly, placing his hands in his pockets and rocking briefly on his heels. Indicating with a thumb he asked William, "What's that all about?" He nodded beyond his wall of windows to the double desk in the bull pen where Constables Crabtree and Higgins managed to twist themselves around so there was no opportunity for eye contact.

William cleared his throat uncomfortably. He and Julia were at odds for the same reasons but at least were talking and not upset with each other. "Sir. I believe Constable Higgins disapproves of Constable Crabtree's choice of Miss Bloom for a sweetheart, and may have said something impolite or made an ill-advised joke at Crabtree's expense."

"Bloody Hell. More likely at Miss Bloom's expense, I'd reckon by the looks of things." He said with a grimace. "Women! Always causing problems…" Brackenreid cut himself off before he could get in any deeper. He and Margaret had a small tussle about Crabtree and Nina Bloom yesterday in the carriage ride home, forcing him to admit he found the lass charming, despite sincere misgivings about the _liaison_.

William wasn't sure he agreed that women cause all the problems, but certainly did not wish to discuss last night's dinner party right now. "Er...yes, sir. I want to go over a new case. Julia was sent a body from Toronto General for autopsy and she is fairly sure it is homicide. I have the particulars and would like to open the investigation." He gave a brief sketch of the particulars and Brackenreid concurred that an investigation was warranted. William eyed the bullpen again thoughtfully.

Brackenreid dropped a file folder of precinct reports on his desk wishing he did not have to digest them, and followed his detective's gaze. After considering passing the task along to a subordinate, he straightened. "All right, Murdoch. Get those two into it, and separated if you can. Take Jackson as well if you need him." He opened his office door and shouted "Oy! You two, in here and grab Jackson as well." He was satisfied when he saw the both of them jump in their chairs. If he had to put up with moody-broody from his wife at home he wasn't going to do so at work.

The detective ran through the known facts to his constables. "Unlike most investigations, establishing the victim's time of death is irrelevant. What we need to know, is precisely _when_ she was attacked. We know roughly when she left work and when she was found—about a fourteen-hour window, give or take. We need a more accurate timeline. At least we think we know _where_ she was attacked—in her cottage. The remaining evidence is likely to be compromised, but it is all we have to go on. Constable Crabtree and I will work that scene." William set Henry to locate the victim's supervisor, Clarence Brightman, and ask him to come down to the Station House to give a statement. "Constable Higgins, please don't let on to Mr. Brightman that Miss Morgan succumbed to her wound if he does not know that already, and after you locate him, investigate his background, where he lives, his work situation at the school. Everything. Constable Jackson, I want you to look into Miss Morgan's background as well, her family, friends, romantic interests… The more information we have on her the more help we will have finding who killed her. Dr. Ogden will have the autopsy findings later this afternoon. I want to have Mr. Brightman's statement taken as soon as possible and then follow up where your investigations lead by the end of the day." Both Jackson and Higgins seemed grateful to start their tasks, or at least escape the Station House and George's dirty looks.

William decided to take bicycles to Miss Morgan's cottage to give George time to bring himself under better control; also, William admitted to himself, so there would be no opportunity for idle conversation between them. The day was bright and dry, free from the rain storms of the previous week, and the ride was pleasant with his murder bag secured on the fender of his wheel. It was a very short distance between Wilton Street and the carriage lane to the rear of Maderia Place where her house was situated, past a well-tended estate which eventually gave way to a scrubby lot. Finding their way to the actual house, it was clear that it was an isolated location: no one would be randomly wandering by; one would need to know the area very well. He noticed the approach to the house was paved with flagstones, useless for foot prints. Pulling up next to the side porch, William rested his bicycle against the small porch railing. He surveyed the structure, nearly obscured by tall bushes and asked George for his opinion.

George turned a critical eye on the one-story façade, sporting a pair of half-rounded windows and attic under a peaked roof. "I'm not sure, sir. Seems like a rather ramshackle place to me. An old worker's cottage perhaps or a converted carriage house? There hasn't been a lick of paint on it in some time." George added. "I use that Library at the teacher's college. It is open to the public as well as the school's students. I knew her, sir. Miss Morgan."

William raised his eyebrows. "Did you? That might be very helpful in our investigation. What did you know about her?"

"Not all that much sir, other than she was particular about the rules of the library, which I suppose was her job. For instance, I would not have ever thought she lives here, like this. There is something odd about this whole place." George answered.

"Indeed. The cottage does not seem to fit in with the rest of the estate." William led George up three wooden steps to a landing and pushed on the half-opened door into a cramped kitchen. Inside the two men observed a cleared space occupied by a table with three chairs, an open pantry, dishware and a sink with a green hand-pump. There was as small path of open floor leading to a front room with stairs to the attic bedrooms. The rest of the two room house was nearly floor- to- ceiling bottles, paper, boxes, bags and furniture. "It is odd in here as well." William looked around at the mess. "The interior does not demonstrate the precision one would associate with a librarian."

"It looks to me that no one has thrown anything out in years. Decades perhaps." George pushed the door open wider to let more light in. "No plumbing, I am guessing, and I saw no lines running to the house—so no electric and no telephone, obviously."

"George, we need to approach this logically as I entirely agree with your observations about years of accretion. What is most important will be the top layer of detritus, so we only need to worry about what is along the pathway—no one has delved into the far reaches of these rooms in a long time. So unless you see a disturbance in the dust, we can leave that alone." William took in his surroundings before coming up with a plan of action. He divided the tasks between them, having George track through the rest of the house while he looked for blood evidence and examined the broken door frame.

"Sir. Look at this." George came back to the kitchen as William was finishing up. "There are two bedrooms upstairs. Only one is habitable—with a single bed, dresser and desk. On the desk I found these." George showed the armful of papers he gathered. "Miss Morgan's correspondence. I have kept them in archeological order so to speak, as much as possible. They seem to be all complaints of one type or other, either that she lodged against others or they made against her." He set the pile down carefully.

William brought up his discovery as well. "This was on the table along with unopened mail. It seems to be a love letter." He offered it to George to read.

George smoothed the rumpled page and angled it for better light. " _ **'I would not be being truthful if I told you I am fine without you—I am not…I find there is nothing I can do but wait it out until I can be with you again…**_ **' "(1)** George finished reading the rest out loud and looked up, light brown eyes round with surprise. "My goodness! Miss Morgan seems to have been able to arouse all sorts of passions. Perhaps one cannot tell a book by its cover, after all…" George found the last part coming out more archly than he originally intended, but he was still smarting a bit from the hard time the detective offered him about his new romance.

"Quite." William ah-hemmed and hoped he did not colour while making eye contact with his companion. "Dr. Ogden says we need to look for round objects as weapons, but there is so much here I would not begin to know where to look, so we will have to wait until we get the autopsy. George, did you find any more letters like this in her possession? Anything with similar paper?" William considered the huge pile of letters already gathered and sighed. "I think we need to bring all the pages we can find back to the Station House to sort and compare." He checked his watch. "When we are done here, I want you to go to the hospital since it is so close by, and interview the attending physician. Ask him about any observations from when the victim got to the hospital. Please collect Miss Morgan's clothing for me, then take her medical chart to the morgue." He hoisted his equipment kit. "Shall we start with finger marks in the kitchen…?"

# # #

 _(1) Used with permission from the author_


	2. Chapter 2

**-Chapter 2 -**

William was sorting paper into piles waiting for Henry to send Clarence Brightman over for his interview, when George Crabtree came through his office door bearing a box, no longer sullen or sulking. William smiled, relieved their professional relationship seemed to have normalized again, having managed to avoid any non-work related conversation all morning. In fact, George seemed energized and eager to give his report, starting before even being asked. "Sir. Here are Miss Morgan's things. I already dropped her medical chart off at the morgue. I have to tell you, the interview with the doctor was interesting." George leaned against the worktable and brought his notebook out of his pocket to recite his findings. Inspector Brackenreid joined them to hear the results for himself, interrupting the flow.

"Go on, Crabtree, don't be shy." Brackenreid insisted when George hesitated.

George refocused on his notes. "Sirs. Dr. Chesterton says Miss Morgan arrived at Toronto General Hospital about ten-thirty Tuesday morning, brought in by a private carriage. She was unconscious. He saw her soon after that to drill the holes in her skull to remove pressure. Can you imagine that? He showed me the drill they use, an awful thing with a huge clamp and a screw – quite medieval." He shuddered expressively before going on. "The story the doctor heard was that Miss Morgan fell and hit her head. However, the doctor did not believe her injury could be from a simple fall; wrong location, wrong indentation or some such. Dr. Chesterton thought that she might have been lying in her kitchen for at least six or more hours, bleeding into her brain, before getting to the hospital, poor lady."

"That would make it four-thirty Tuesday morning," William said, and placed that fact on his chalk board.

George continued, flipping his notebook page. "Furthermore, I wondered if it was possible Miss Morgan was struck elsewhere and managed to get home before passing out on her floor, and he thought it _could_ have happened that way. Apparently it takes a while for the blood to leak into the skull…." George made another face at that idea. "So, there would not have been much blood from the wound as she was bleeding internally. I think that is consistent with what we found in her kitchen sir, hardly any blood evidence. He also mentioned that the man who came in with her, her boss Mr. Brightman, was behaving what he called, 'suspiciously', and by that he meant Mr. Brightman looked nervous and was very quick to disparage Miss Morgan's, um, character by insisting she was drinking. However, the problem is there was no overpowering smell of alcohol on her person. Unfortunately no testing for that was done." He shrugged. "However I suppose it was not a bad guess- we did find a large quantity of empty bottles in her living space."

"Very good work, George, thank you." William offered, gesturing to the timeline. "So we have from whenever she left work until perhaps 4:30 am as a time frame for her assault. In the meantime, we should examine her clothing and look over each piece of paper and correspondence, to match anything to that romantic letter we found."

"Love letter, eh?" Brackenreid questioned. "Is that your motive, a lover's quarrel or jealousy?"

William answered. "We are not sure, sir. Miss Morgan also seemed to have a somewhat querulous inclination, as evidenced by her _other_ correspondence. So far this letter is just one piece of the puzzle. I have not seen anything similar amongst her papers, but I have only just started." He turned to George. "I have taken finger marks from the page we are calling the 'love letter', some of which are rather odd and smudged, and begun sorting the rest into categories. I suggest we take a look at her clothing before going back to her papers."

William picked up each item from the box one by one and passed them to George and the inspector. The first thing they noticed was that there were tears in her skirt and bloomers. William got out his magnifying glass, and passed it to both other men. "What do you think? These seem to be recent. I wonder if these occurred while she was assaulted." He looked at his chalk board. "What else can we get from these garments?"

George picked up her hat. "It looks to me that this was torn off or pulled off—you can see there is a great knot of hair still stuck in the hat pin."

Brackenreid spoke up. "Well, we also know that she must have been attacked either on her way home or at her house pretty soon after she got there, because these are street clothes and not a night gown. So unless the lady slept in her hat and dress…"

The telephone rang and William answered while inspector and constable continued their examination and discussion on collegial terms. _Excellent,_ he thought. _Now we only have to get Henry and George on friendly terms again._ "That was the morgue. Gentlemen, I am going over to hear the autopsy results. Please let me know if Mr. Brightman arrives?"

William looked forward to Julia's report, hoping for a little luncheon if possible as well, as the day was wearing on. When he arrived in the autopsy bay, Miss James was just washing up and Julia had already removed her apron and was drying her hands. He took a moment to appreciate Julia's profile and figure, feeling the lift in his heart that never a failed to accompany seeing her, no matter how much or how little time passed. An unruly part of his mind was already projecting how, tonight, he was going to help her _out_ of the fetching green dress she had on, when Julia called his name, breaking his reverie.

"William! Please come down. Miss James? Can you give our assessment to the detective?" Julia stood back, allowing Miss James to stand on one side of the table with William across from her.

Taking her cue from Julia, Miss James pulled the drape covering the corpse's head aside, her dark fingers contrasting with the stark whiteness of the sheet. She revealed a defleshed skull. "Detective. As you can see we removed the victim's skin and hair in order to see the skull wound more clearly." She handed William a magnifying glass. "As you can see, there are two depression fractures we have stained, one shallow and one deeper, right here on the side of her head where four bones of the skull meet: the frontal, parietal, sphenoid and temporal. It is a structurally weak spot in the skull architecture."

William nodded. "And two blows exclude a fall, indicating foul play." He looked carefully at the skull, including evidence of the hole that was placed in her skull to relieve pressure for a swelling brain, and gestured. "May I?" he asked. He took out his notebook, plus a compass and protractor from one of his specially-made jacket pockets, to make measurements of the impression the weapon made. Julia and Miss James made eye contact as he did so; Miss James was getting used to the detective's ways. "I don't suppose there was any trace evidence in the wound or skull?" he asked hopefully.

Miss James shook her head. "No, detective. Anything obvious was obscured by the process of cleaning the wound and treating her at the hospital. We did remove the brain." Julia fetched a shallow dish from the small ice box and handed it to Miss James. "You can see the bleeding damage right where the blows were struck, as well as slight bruising on the side opposite, which mirrors per-mortem bruising on her face as well. Gross examination agrees with her treating physician that she was bleeding for quite a while."

Julia added. "She might have lived if she was attended to sooner, but there would have been a great deal of damage done to her abilities to function. Even if a larger section of skull had been removed…" she did not wish to criticize the surgeon, as in her opinion Miss Morgan was fatally injured by the time she arrived at the hospital, regardless of treatment.

"Miss James, Doctor, can you tell me a better approximation of when she was struck? I also would like to know if you thought she was intoxicated and if she was," he took a breath and said evenly, "sexually assaulted?" William waited for their verdict.

Julia answered. "No assault, she was spared that. There is no way at this point to know if she was intoxicated, however her liver indicated fatty deposits which can be associated with alcohol consumption, but that is not the only activity that causes it. There is no other evidence of chronic alcoholism, if that is what you are also asking. As to when she was struck, analysis of her brain tissues gives a broad approximation of up to 6 to 24 hours before surgery—we know the extent of the bleeding but the time frame is less exact. Blood causes the brain tissues to die, as do the effects of swelling. Essentially she could have been assaulted any time from when she theoretically arrived home to shortly before she was found." She saw William making notes and peer again at the skull.

He asked both woman. "Can you determine the angle of the assault, the height of the assailant? Anything about the weapon from the wound? Or anything about how much force was needed?"

Julia smiled. "I will leave the physics to your area, detective. Height may be irrelevant in this case." She saw his eyebrows rise. "In my opinion she was given a glancing blow that sent her to the floor and then she was struck a second time while she was on the floor. If the object was heavy enough or if she was struck while on the floor not as much force, not much strength, would be needed." William asked permission to make a paper rubbing of the skull and did so quickly.

"So, her assailant could be a man or woman, anyone within average height perhaps? No sexual motivation in any event. " His mind was already working on calculations, thoughts of lunch pushed out by planning the next steps of the case. "Very good. Thank you. I might want a mold of the injury…."

Miss James answered. "Already in the works, detective, but considering what the surgeon did…" She shrugged to indicate it would not be probative and behind her he saw Julia agreed.

He nodded and took his leave, wending his way back to his office, considering what items he wanted collected from Miss Morgan's home and thinking the applied load of the weapon would indeed dissipate if she was struck while upright or moving away from the blow, and wondering if there was a variable for elastic deformation of the human skull. He nearly ran into Constable Higgins, who met him in the vestibule of the station house.

Henry appeared excited, his changeable hazel-green eyes were round and his mouth was drawn up into a smug grin. "Detective!" He launched into his report before William could even put his hat away. "I have Mr. Brightman waiting for you in the interview room, and some interesting information you are going to want to know before you talk with him." Henry followed on the heels of the detective reeling off the facts as he found them, stopping abruptly when he saw his partner, George, looking up from at least twelve stacks of pages; a fugitive smile leaving his lips. William had to prod him to continue. He glanced back at George before going on. "Er… Mr. Brightman is a graduate of the Library School at Columbia University in New York. The school was founded by Mr. Melvil …" Henry ruffled several sheets of tightly scribbled notes and was obviously about to describe the Dewey-Decimal System.

William cut him off. "Yes, Henry, I know who Melvil Dewey is and what he invented…please continue..." William wondered for a moment if Henry and George were competing with each other for their detective's professional approval as a stand in for their dispute about Miss Bloom.

"Well, did you know McGill University in Montreal will be starting a Librarian training program next June? Mr. Brightman wants to be hired there." The smug look was back. "He is married to a woman from Quebec and they moved from the States to Toronto four years ago. They have no children. He was given the job of head librarian by the Normal School to get their library up to snuff, and deal with a collection of reference books willed to them by a wealthy benefactor who specified the hiring of a trained librarian if the money were to go to the school. Miss Morgan was already a librarian at the school when Mr. Brightman arrived. What is interesting are the rumors that Mr. Brightman is a little too _familiar_ with the students. There have been some complaints from students, nothing proven. I also heard a rumour that Miss Morgan may have lodged a complaint as well, but the school would not cooperate or confirm without talking with their solicitor. You know…I went out with a girl from that teacher's school; it _is_ mostly girls and women who go there." He flicked his eyes sideways. "It's a decent way to earn a wage, working with children and all…"

George erupted immediately. "Oh, for Heaven's sake, Henry…" His face flushed and he jammed his pencil into the blotter on his desk.

" _Gentlemen_ …" William warned, effectively silencing both constables. "Is there anything else about Mr. Brightman, Constable?"

Henry finished. "Mr. Brightman would not give me a list of patrons of the library. Apparently librarians are particular about that sort of thing, but he brought the sign-in book with him," then he stopped for dramatic effect. "He already knew Miss Morgan was dead, but I don't think he knows we suspect murder. And he has no alibi for Monday night since his wife is out of town visiting relatives."

William thanked him and took a second to prepare himself for the interview, before he remembered the inspector wanted peace between these two. "I am asking you both to continue sorting through Miss Morgan's correspondence. I _trust_ you can do that?" He paused until both men gave in under his attention and nodded. "Good. We have a start on separating mundane letters from those containing potential motives for murder. Also, please looking for paper similar to the page of the so-called 'love letter.' After my speaking with Mr. Brightman I believe we will have other interviews to conduct." William made eye contact with each man and passed them to talk with the inspector. He rapped on the door frame and was waved in, closing the door behind him.

Brackenreid was at his desk, working on an apple, with reading glasses sliding down his nose. At least three inches of paper was stacked on the left side of the desk, a full inch on the right. His blue eyes lit right up anticipating a distraction when William came in. "Ah, Murdoch. Come to rescue me from bureaucracy?" He removed the glasses, pinched the bridge of his nose and gestured. "I swear that this is part of how the powers that be weed out prospective Chief Constables. How is the investigation going?"

"Julia and Miss James confirm it is murder and I am about to interview Miss Morgan's supervisor. Jackson is still working on information about her." William looked out the window at George and Henry sorting paper side by side and Brackenreid joined him. The inspector telegraphed his question wordlessly…. William answered. "I am satisfied the two constables will work it out, sir. Give them some time."

"As you wish. Just remember they could be your problem if I get called to city hall." Brackenreid winked and grinned before putting his spectacles back on. "Go start your interview."

From the observation window, William saw that Clarence Brightman, who was literally twiddling his thumbs over a cloth-bound ledger, appeared anxious and irritated. The librarian's thinning brown hair was scraped back from his forehead accentuating large ears and a long oval face, featuring pale blue eyes which darted around the room. William entered, having decided to try and trap the man in a lie. "Thank you for coming in Mr. Brightman. I am Detective William Murdoch and I have a few questions." He sat across from the librarian and began. "Mr. Brightman, I wonder if you can clear something up for us. Why did you tell the hospital that you believed Miss Morgan suffered a fall while intoxicated? What did you base your evidence on? Does your knowledge have something to do with your relationship with her?" William slid the words across the table like a subtle chess gambit and wondered what response his opening move would provoke.

Clarence Brightman blinked. William noticed. Brightman squirmed in his seat and tried to cover it with a cough. William smiled. His question was pitched to see what Brightman was going to answer and what he was going to avoid. So far the librarian was trying to avoid the whole conversation.

"Mr. Brightman, I need an explanation, please." William sat with his hands folded in front of him on the battered table, clearly content to wait, his brown eyes unblinkingly trained on his opponent's blues ones.

Eventually Brightman looked away and coughed again. "I don't want to speak ill of the dead, detective, but Miss Morgan has... _had_ , a drinking problem." When William did not react, letting the silence continue, Brightman began to sputter. "I don't know what you want me to say! Miss Morgan was becoming difficult at work, detective, and I was about to have to fire her for consuming spirits on her lunch hour and frankly smelling like alcohol on occasion. As for why I went to her house…it was because she did not show up to open the Library doors at eight. She has no telephone, something that as her supervisor I was aware of. Through the window, I saw her on the kitchen floor and thought she just passed out. When I could not rouse her by banging on the door I knew something was wrong—I broke it down and then went to get help for her. I'm sorry the poor woman is dead, despite my efforts. I am the hero here, detective, why can't you see that?" The librarian's voice rose and cracked. "Can't you leave her, _and me_ , alone?"

William remained impassive. He noticed the fact that Brightman did not deny a relationship, so he decided to attack there. William leaned forward over the table, pushing a pencil and paper towards the other man. "You were in a contentious relationship with Miss Morgan, your assistant Librarian. She made complaints about you to the administration, did she not? I find it unusual in the extreme you knew where Miss Morgan lived, as the cottage is rather secluded, unless you had more than a professional relationship with her." William catalogued each reaction as it flicked across the librarian's visage. "And you have no alibi for the night of her death."

Brightman startled. "Why would I need an alibi?"

"Miss Morgan was murdered." William said harshly, carefully scrutinizing the other man's face. "Now, perhaps you can tell me again where you were between eight pm Monday and eight am Tuesday morning…?" William placed the pencil within arm's reach of Mr. Brightman, who in turn treated the writing implement as if it were a deadly instrument aimed at his heart.

# # #


	3. Chapter 3

-Chapter 3-

William came into the bull pen with a page of tightly written script in one of his hands, and a ledger in the other. Constable Jackson was present, having returned from his inquiries and pressed into paper-sorting duty, his large form wedged between the smaller ones of Higgins and Crabtree. William saw that progress was being made, but that the sheer volume of papers was daunting. All three looked up when he stopped by the desks.

"Sir. I have the information on Miss Morgan," Constable Jackson offered. He began after the detective gestured for him to share with all present. "She has been a librarian at the Normal School for eleven years. Before that she was a student and then a grade-school teacher, and eventually a teacher of teachers at the school, but supposedly her temperament wasn't, um… quite suited to the role. The scuttlebutt is she was ill-suited to have any job working closely with others, to be precise. She was shifted to being librarian when there was an opening there and did well. Moreover, she expected to be head librarian one day, but then Mr. Brightman was hired. That did not sit well with her."

"Did she let others know her views on the matter?" asked William.

"Yes. And pretty vocally, at least at first. As for her social life, she never married and I have no information about a fiancé or sweetheart currently or in her past. She lived a relatively circumscribed life, had few acquaintances outside of her job at the library, mostly read her books and journals to fill her time. Everyone I spoke with said her whole life was books, obsessed with them even. She walked to work and home again the same routes every day. On the way in, Parliament to Wilton to Bond, then Church to Gerard to Parliament on the way home."

William had a fleeting recognition that some of that description applied to himself as well…and that without Julia it would _be_ his life even now. He crossed his arms and returned his attention to Jackson.

"About that house. Her father was a gardener and her mother a housekeeper for the Granger estate. It seems her cottage was willed to her by her parents who died some years ago, and she continued to live there, even though the property was supposed to revert to the larger estate upon their deaths. The Granger family filed notices to evict her in order to sell the land, but she refused to leave and got a judge to agree with her and forced the Grangers to allow right- of- way access. But it seems she could not force them to put in electric or plumbing or telephone, despite some sincere effort on her part."

Higgins stepped in, both hands holding pages. "She certainly never let anyone get away with any slight, judging by these letters."

George chimed in. "We have divided them into piles according to what we thought of as strength of motive, with the most recent conflicts on top. So far there is nothing here resembling a romantic interest." George paused, looking thoughtful. "But I did not see any kind of diary and did not look for a hidden location for correspondence…"

"George, you can search when you go back to her house. Here are Mr. Brightman's finger marks. See if you find them anywhere they ought not to be. We need to know if he is lying about never going farther into her house than the kitchen when he says he tried to rescue her." William drew out a set of papers with an arc sketched on it. "Also look for any object that has these dimensions so we can match them to the wound."

William turned to the other two constables. "Mr. Brightman is allowing us to copy the sign-in sheet from Monday. Gentlemen, start with the library patrons who left within the last hour or so before closing. Library patrons from the community are required to sign in and out and have an address. They may have seen someone or something. Please take their statements and ask any of them to come in before the end of the day for an interview, if you think it wise or helpful. I especially want to know if anyone saw Miss Morgan leaving the library." He handed the ledger to Henry. "Mr. Brightman says there is a small file box on his desk with the names and addresses in it."

The detective was satisfied with how the men sorted out their duties. George and Henry had not shot metaphorical daggers at each other the whole time, merely seeming content to pointedly ignore the other's existence. He grunted. _Julia somehow thinks that talking to George (or Henry) will help. I have no idea what to say that would not be painfully embarrassing…and Julia has become a supporter of Miss Bloom, almost an admirer of her as a "New Woman" and an adherent of the "Free Love" movement._ He chuckled. _That was until I pointed out some similarities to Ruby…_ Smiling at the memory, he glanced at the piles of paper that were already arranged across the partner desks in the bull pen, before checking the time. It was only half past one o'clock, and wanted to determine if the librarian should still be a suspect by the end of shift, so the man could be booked or sent home. As it was, Mr. Brightman was going to enjoy the hospitality at Station House No. 4 until that was cleared up. He called on Constable Worsley to check up on Mr. Brightman's new alibi and get information on the Granger family. William brought his chalk board into the bull pen and used one side to list out the known facts and start a list of motives and suspects, with "Granger Family" upon whose acreage Miss Morgan's cottage stood, topping the list under the column for "Money."

# # #

George was just coming back to the Station House after several hours of work, carting a box of possible weapons, when he encountered Henry in the entranceway. Henry appeared to be escorting a witness for Detective Murdoch to interview, and George's face burst into a confused smile when he recognized the man. "Reverend Abbott, My goodness! Are you here about poor Miss Morgan?" George tried to balance the box he carried on his left hip in order to free a hand to greet Lyman Abbott, but all he succeeded in doing was careening into Henry.

Henry grasped the other side of the box to help and before remembering he was angry with George. He brought the box up and shoved it firmly in George's arms, and pulled the Anglican priest along, cutting off the friendly greeting Lyman was offering to George. Henry said, "Please come this way, Reverend Abbott. I apologize for the other Constable's rude jostling. Let me introduce you to Detective Murdoch," sparing a backwards glare for George.

George exhaled in exasperation and hurried the heavy box to his desk where it landed with a sharp bang. Looking up he saw that another acquaintance was coming out of the detective's door, formally shaking hand with the detective.

"Ah, good! Constable Crabtree, you are back. Would you mind taking finger marks from Mr. Klein before he leaves?" William gestured politely to George and made eye contact with Henry, when he noticed the person standing next to Constable Higgins. William became aware that George, this new man and Mr. Klein all looked at each other with varying amounts of consternation. "Gentlemen, I take it you three are acquainted?"

George spoke up first. "Sir, yes we are. We all use the library of course." He tried not to look in Henry's direction and to speak matter- of- factly. "You see, Mr. Klein, Reverend Abbott and I are part of a group that meets the fourth Thursday of every month in one of the library community rooms to discuss writing." He heard Henry making a teeth-sucking sound but ignored it. "I'll be glad to take both their finger marks, detective. Mr. Klein? Come with me." George dragged the unresisting man away, who was clearly confused about what just happened, leaving Henry to make introduction and pass Reverend Abbott over to the detective.

William witnessed the interchange between constables but decided to pursue it later. "Reverend Abbott, please come into my office. Thank you for agreeing to an interview. I know it is an inconvenience."

"Oh, not at all, Detective." Lyman Abbott was as tall as William, with a thick head of dark hair and great swoops of black eye-brows set above round grey eyes. Unlike William he was portly, and seemed to have a jovial nature. "I insisted on coming. I am interested in helping of course."

William offered him a seat and began. "I have some questions about Monday night. I understand you were one of the last people we know who saw Miss Morgan. What can you tell me?"

"I was at the library getting some material for my next sermon, and I enjoy the atmosphere there, so I sometimes go there to read and write. As far as I can tell Miss Morgan was her usual self, detective. She always makes sure we leave promptly at eight o'clock. Three of us were talking on the steps for a moment before parting. Miss Morgan turned the lights off and came out, locking the door behind her. We went our way and she went hers."

"That would be you, Mr. Klein and a Miss Ludwig?" William asked.

Rev. Abbott nodded. "Yes. All three of us are acquainted."

"Did you see if anyone followed Miss Morgan?"

"No, I did not, but I was not watching after her either. I go home via Guild to Yonge, the opposite direction. I have a parsonage behind my church where my wife and I live."

William reflected on his interview with the banker, Mr. Klein. "You say she was her usual self. Can you be more specific?"

The Reverend sat for a moment, the humor in his face replaced by worry. "Miss Morgan was a troubled woman, detective. She did not 'suffer fools gladly' to reference Saint Paul, yet she was diligent and exacting in the library, which was of course her job. I imagine in your line of work, as in mine, one senses certain things, is that not so? She did not confide in me, so I have no idea _what_ her troubles were, other than to know she had them."

William asked. "Did you hear her argue with anyone on Monday evening?"

The Reverend smiled. "Detective, Miss Morgan only _had_ sharp words. But an actual argument? Anything out of the ordinary? Not in my hearing."

William noted that Rev. Abbott was observing as many details of the office has he could, with frank curiosity. Mr. Klein had been more surreptitious but displayed the same inquisitiveness. _Also the same lack of any helpful information. Neither man needed to come all this way to add so very little to the investigation._ "Reverend Abbott, how did Miss Morgan appear to you? Did she appear under the weather in any way? Or intoxicated perhaps?"

"No, detective, she did not. The last time I saw her she was sober and I assumed headed in the direction of home. She always went the same way any evening when I was there to closing."

William finished up with the priest and sent him along to have George take his finger marks, which he was oddly eager to give. The detective was still at his desk contemplating reports from four constables plus his own two interviews when he overheard Henry and George muttering to each other with increasing volume, as they continued to sort through the mass of paper collected from Miss Morgan's house. He sighed and pushed away from the desk. "Henry?" he asked, interrupting the whispered dialogue between the two constables. "Please ask Inspector Brackenreid if he wants to join us? George, fetch Constables Worsley and Jackson, will you?"

As soon as everyone was assembled, William began with a quick summary, directing his recitation to Inspector Brackenreid. "The current theory is that Miss Morgan was attacked fairly soon after arriving at her home, even perhaps by someone she let in her house. Calculating the time it would take her to walk home, it could have been as early as 8:30 to 9:00 pm at the latest, assuming she moved right along. As for the door, I examined it. It has the type of lock that can be easily set from the inside and pulled shut, and from the damage to it, it supports Mr. Brightman's statement that he broke it down. Now we also know what he was hiding. Constable Worsley confirmed Mr. Brightman was enjoying part of Monday evening at a brothel, so we let him go, for now. George, I take it you did not find his finger marks in Miss Morgan's house other than the kitchen?"

"No sir. Although I cannot imagine an assignation in that heap of a house…" George regretted his observation immediately, especially since the detective harrumphed and Henry tittered. The Inspector scowled. _Great, they are all sour on me again!_ He thought.

Henry continued. "There were seven people who stayed right until closing time and four who left within the hour before. Five were students at the school. No one I took statements from had any useful information."

"Myself as well. And no one along her route home that I spoke with saw anything amiss, but I suppose the evening watch can canvass the area in more detail." Jackson added.

"Indeed." William had dragged the chalkboard into the bull pen. "Constable Worsley, what did you find out about the Granger family?"

"They wanted Miss Morgan evicted so they could sell the land off—a deal for a building or housing of some such. Turns out the deal fell through, so there was no rush to move her off the land, certainly no call to kill her to get her to vacate."

The inspector looked at the board from his vantage point, sitting on the edge of one of the desks. "How about revenge instead of a money motive? Anger over the failed deal?"

Worsley shook his head. "This family has more solicitors and barristers than I can count. That seems to be their way…" he snorted a little, "but Miss Morgan did win a couple rounds with them." The constable sounded a little impressed.

"Inspector, they did not need to go that far since they technically owned the property. There were plenty of other ways to move her off the land if they had chosen," George said. "I've seen the letters. There were no threats of bodily harm."

"I agree," said William. "For that matter, I suppose they could have burned the house down to be rid of her; I think they did not need to kill her." He paused. "But whoever did kill her either followed her there or already knew where she lived—so I think it is more likely it had to be someone who knew her—not a complete stranger. There must be some connection to someone, and we must find it."

Henry put the finger mark cards he was studying down. "I do not see any matches from Mr. Brightman, or Mr. Klein or Reverend Abbott to anything from Miss Morgan's house or the mysterious 'love letter.' "

"Where does that leave us?" asked the inspector. "There is no trail to love and you seem to have ruled out money."

William answered. "Only with what we know so far with the potential suspects we have identified. We will try to match her head wound to the objects from her house. Knowing the weapon could be helpful—for instance an object from her house could indicate it was not premeditated, but the result of an argument that got out of hand. Once we have a weapon we can hopefully have finger marks. We also need to know more about who interacted with her so the sorting of her papers is a priority, as it seem likely that a person as litigious and difficult as Miss Morgan may have had enemies." He looked at the clock. "Sometime tomorrow I will interview the final person who was there at the library closing, and all Miss Morgan's papers should be sorted by then. Tonight, inspector, I would l like the evening shift to walk Miss Morgan's route home, seeking anyone who might have seen her."

"Good plan," the inspector said. "All right men, bright and early tomorrow it is." Jackson, Worsley, Higgins and Crabtree relaxed and started toward the lockers. "Not you, Crabtree. My office. You too Murdoch!" Brackenreid saw Worsley and Jackson put their heads down and kept walking; Higgins however slowed by the water dispenser for a sip. "Looking to join us, Higgins?" the inspector asked, a sarcastic edge to his voice. "Come along then."

In his office, Inspector Brackenreid poured a drink and sat in his chair. William was on the black couch and the two constables stood uncomfortably, shifting foot to foot. "Gentlemen, this case had better move forward with alacrity. Alacrity! It is a ten dollar word for the gentry feeling threatened that a nice lady got murdered in her home not that far from the posher parts of the city, on an estate owned by one of the richest families in Toronto. My telephone has been ringing all day." He sneered. "Makes it hard to get all the paper work done." He leaned forward, capturing attention. "Am I clear there are to be no mistakes on this one?" Higgins and Crabtree snapped to attention in unison. "Yes sir."

"Fine. Now go home and get a fresh start in the morning." Brackenreid hoisted his glass in a salute as the constables exited, and motioned to his detective. "Good night, Murdoch." He looked at the piles of paper on his desk and sighed. There were still some pages that had not transited from the left hand pile to the right hand one. Watching Murdoch preparing to leave, he decided that finishing tonight was better than having to face it in the morning, so he squared his shoulders and repositioned his glasses, finding where he left off and forced himself to keep reading, all the while thinking of Margaret's pot roast waiting for him…

Instead of home, William telephoned his wife to make sure she was still at the morgue, and picked up the box George brought back from the victim's house and hauled it across the laneway.

Julia was alone in her domain. She greeted William with a kiss on the cheek, glancing at the box he carried. "A present for me? How thoughtful!"

William almost mistook that for a serious comment before realizing she was teasing. Relieved, he set the box down and started removing the contents. "Julia, I thought before we went home we could try and see if any of these fit the wound on Miss Morgan's head. It would help to know as soon as possible if the killer used a weapon of opportunity or brought his…"

"Or _hers_ …" she teased again. Julia went to the cooler and retrieved the skull.

"Yes, _his or hers_ with them. So you do think a woman could have done this?" William quizzed.

"Of course. There are plenty of women with good upper body strength, especially if their occupations require it. I am surprised at you, William, you should know that by now." Julia answered as she picked up the first item, a ceramic vase, and fit it to the bones. "Too large."

William brought the next object, a mallet, over and compared. "Wrong edge." He slid his gaze towards his wife. "My major personal experience with strong-armed women is limited to a certain city coroner who has recreational archery as a hobby. But if you feel my education is lacking perhaps I should…" Julia made a mocking sound and lifted a frying pan, weighing its heft in her hand, which silenced his mouth but not his grin.

Frying pan, mug and horseshoe were tried and discarded. At the bottom of the box was a metal meat grinder. Julia picked it up and placed each of the gadget's surfaces against the wound. "That's it. Look- it fits exactly both curve and edge." She peered at it again. "I see it has already been investigated for finger marks. As it was used for meat your method for illuminating blood stains will not be that valuable."

William agreed. "Yes. The surface is pebbled, making finger marks problematic, but as it happens George found this on the drain board by the sink. So we have a weapon of opportunity."

"Indeed. Suggesting it was not premeditated. But we also have someone cleaning up after themselves; that suggests presence of mind….And dare I say a woman's touch?" Julia's teasing turned serious. "There was no sexual assault, no frenzied attack, no evidence of defensive wounds. There is evidence of cleaning up, no finger marks, and I remind you women do tend to wear gloves year 'round. It was full dark when Miss Morgan came home. Would she have let a man in? Perhaps not. But what about a woman? Her skull was not crushed and she did not die instantly." She considered the meat grinder again and lifted it over her shoulder, giving it a practice swing. "This is not too heavy and would easily have done the job."

"Especially if the second blow was struck while she was on the floor. I did the calculations, and considering the weight of this metal piece, I see what you mean-a woman could wield it." William needed to rethink the case and expand the suspects. "I would consider a fight perhaps, except for that second blow. That makes it murder."

Julia agreed. "Precisely."

# # #


	4. Chapter 4

-Chapter 4-

 **Thursday October 22**

Morning sunlight was spilling through the Station House windows, illuminating dust motes wafting through the air as Henry Higgins and George Crabtree rearranged Miss Morgan's lifetime of notes, letters, forms and correspondence into delineated piles. Henry sneezed again, the dust being an irritant. Neither man had seen this much paper since delving into the case of Miss Dawes and Mr. Rodriguez. Under the monitoring ears of the Detective and the Inspector, grumbling between them was minimized and the work proceeded. Taking a moment when they were unobserved, Higgins indicated towards Detective Murdoch's office and whispered excitedly. "George! Is that really Miss Rita Love in there with the detective? And is it true you know her?"

George looked up at the glass walls, obscured by shades drawn tightly down and nodded. "Yes Henry, to both questions. Does that mean you are speaking with me again?"

"Well, I don't know. Are you speaking with me?" Henry countered.

"Why do you want to meet Miss Love? I hardly think she is your 'type'." George dug a little at Henry.

Henry bit his tongue from making any rejoinder, although he had a pithy one at the ready, questioning if George himself had a particular type of girl he favours, considering past choices and current paramour, Miss Nina Bloom. _When I think of how often George got his heart broken, he should be grateful I am trying to look out for him,_ Henry thought, defending his attitude about Miss Bloom. Instead he admitted: "I read Miss Love's columns in the Toronto Gazette every day, and I am not ashamed to say so. They are quite entertaining, and instructive in the ways of romance. More men should take advantage of understanding how women tick, if they want success in the romance department. I just want to know what Miss Love looks like and meet her in person. Come on, George, she is a somewhat famous writer after all, with a huge following."

"Henry!" George spit out exasperatedly. "I am a somewhat famous writer as well, for which you never give me credit. I'll have you know my second novel is finished…well _almost_ finished. I wrote it with the very pen Mark Twain gave me. _Mark Twain!_ Who is actually a very famous writer." He tried to glower at Henry but it had no effect.

Henry put the last letter in place and brushed his hands, with a far off, goofy look on his face. "What is she like, George? Please tell me."

Henry looked so ridiculous George relented. "I will make introductions, even let you take her finger marks if we can drop the subject of my private life. Agreed?" George could not figure out of Henry was star-struck or infatuated with Miss Love, but looked forward to tweaking him about it if at all possible, in the very near future.

Inside the detective's office, Malgorzota Ludwik, the woman behind "Rita Love" was commandeering the interview, with William having a bit of a struggle to remain in charge. Mrs. Ludwik had reminded him at the outset she knew his wife through suffrage activities, and she seemed well-acquainted with his and Julia's very public travails, without any apparent judgement. Tall and sturdy, with bespectacled yet striking green eyes, she exuded both kindness and a no-nonsense air. "Detective, as I told you. I was there at the library twice on Monday. I thought I overheard Miss Morgan arguing with someone early in the day but I do not know who her interlocutor was. I am at the library often as it is half way between the Gazette offices and my home, since I write for morning and afternoon editions of the paper. At eight o'clock closing I chatted with two acquaintances and made off towards the trolley for my ride home. I am sure you can obtain confirmation from the trolley driver, but there is no one at my home to vouch for me, since my husband passed away several years ago." She pivoted back immediately to her chosen subject. "Can you tell me anything about how the investigation is proceeding? What are your current lines of inquiry?"

She was squinting at the chalk board, appeared to be reading things upside down on his desk, and was taking notes as fast as William was jotting down his. He considered the necessity for ending the interview promptly. "Mrs. Ludwik, I am not at liberty to divulge any information at this stage of the investigation." He noted she looked disappointed but determined. Another thought intruded. "I suppose you'd like you finger marks taken, wouldn't you?"

She looked over her glasses at him and beamed. "Oh, could you do that for me? That would be wonderful!" This distraction segued to William offering his thanks for her stopping by, and delivering her to the waiting constables who appeared to be on comfortable terms again, or perhaps a cease fire existed between them.

Mrs. Ludwik smiled. "Mr. Crabtree, or I suppose Constable Crabtree, I was wondering if I would run into you." William noted the lady appeared genuinely pleased to make the connection with George. The detective was thoughtful— _that made three library patrons plus the librarian and the supervisor that George knows_ … _interesting._

George spoke politely, hooking his thumb in the belt around his waist. "Mrs. Ludwik, may I introduce my colleague, Constable Henry Higgins? Constable Higgins, may I introduce Mrs. Malgorzota Ludwik, who writes under the name of 'Rita Love' for the _Toronto Gazette_?" He looked at her and gestured to Henry. "Constable Higgins here will be happy to take your finger marks." George thought Henry would be disappointed when he learned that 'Miss Love' was not a comely young woman. To his surprise, Henry's eyes got even more glazed over and his smile curled upwards like he was completely smitten by a woman a half a head taller than he, with salt and pepper hair and old enough to be his mother. George had to nudge him into action.

Henry coloured. "Miss Love, I cannot tell you how much of an honour it is for me to meet you. I'm your biggest admirer. Please come right this way…" Henry led her off to the interview room to collect her finger marks, chatting the whole while about specific columns he liked and pressing her for how she comes up with inspiration.

William joined George in watching the odd pair retreat towards the interview room, when Inspector Brackenreid cleared his throat to announce his presence. "Crabtree? Is that really Rita Love? Margaret adores her columns in the paper. Always cutting them out and tucking them into…" Brackenreid cut himself off and frowned, then shifted, sipping his tea. "So, what have you got?"

George pointed to the stacks and stacks of papers overflowing the partner desks in the center of the bull pen. He hoped no one would open a window or move past them too fast, in case the breeze disordered all their hard work. "Sirs. We have sorted all the pages; most recent on top. These larger piles here are rather mundane. These smaller ones were divided into interpersonal disputes, legal disputes and financial disputes, with a great deal of overlap I'm afraid, and sub divided into motives—anger, financial gain or loss, revenge, pride, jealousy etcetera. We have found no romantic missives and no paper that is similar to the alleged 'love letter'. I will say even though it looked a mess, there may have been some logic to it for Miss Morgan. Each letter is stapled to the envelope it came in and her copy of whatever action she took is attached as well."

"So some method to it all. Did you find a diary of any kind? Any hidden love letters?" William asked.

"None sir. She was not the introspective type for a diary, it seems. I suppose she could have burned intimate letters….Instead, I think we should start with these." He grabbed a thick wad of pages. "This is all about her house and the Granger Family. Land records should be checked." He gave an involuntary grimace, familiar as he was with that nightmare of a department.

"Bloody Hell," Brackenreid said and moved to take them. "Look at all of this. It's as much as I did yesterday!"

William took the second stack offered. He was curious. "Tell me, George, how it is you know so many of the principles in this case?"

George had been wondering about that himself. "I think it is coincidence sir. We are all part of a monthly writer's group, that's all, and all use the library, so that is the connection."

"What do you do at this writer's group, Crabtree?" asked the inspector. "I thought you were teaching a class on writing."

"Er...yes, I did offer a class; am planning the next one as well. The writer's group meets tonight with about ten of us give or take, and we share what we are writing and give each other support and critique I suppose. You see, it always comes better from someone who understands the process of writing, because each of us has been published…well nearly all of us. Most of the group submits something to a publisher every month or so." George looked up to see how his superiors were taking this in, disinclined to disclose any more.

William wanted more details, to nail down his suspicion. "So, George. Biography? Travelogues? History?" He arched his brows skeptically.

George hesitated. "Umm... yes some of that, I guess. Members are interested in writing short stories primarily, but there is another novelist or two such as myself, a journalist, Miss Love's a columnist of course, except she would like to be a reporter, a poet, we even have someone who inscribes greeting cards—quite lovely, emotional and romantic she is… But primarily mysteries and romances, or a good mystery with a side of romance. That is where the real money is, at two cents a word…" George shrugged when he saw the other two men were momentarily impressed.

William nodded to Inspector Brackenreid, who was holding the Granger file. "Yes...well…Sir, it seems you want to handle the sensitive aspects if this case. If so, I will assign the constables to run down these other leads. We are looking for someone with a motive to kill Miss Morgan, who has no alibi for the night of her death. The first suspicion is it is someone who knew her, including possibly a woman." He saw the inspector's eye widen. "Sir. The autopsy results and weapon used convince me that a woman would have the strength to do the deed. Julia suggested Miss Morgan would invite a woman into her home at night, but not a man. In any case, there is no evidence someone broke in to the house to harm her. The night watch produced no witnesses to anyone following Miss Morgan or reports of disturbances. Miss Morgan may have had an argument with someone earlier in the day on Monday at the library, and knowing her habits, she did not yet have time to write a letter of complaint about that." Henry chuckled quietly before wiping his face and looking sheepish.

"Very well. Get on it then, gentlemen." Brackenreid retreated to his office, as Henry escorted Mrs. Ludwik to the door on his arm, obviously under the woman's spell and charmed by the encounter. George whistled to get Henry's attention.

Before assigning portions of the investigation, William heard Henry and George's impressions of the documents they examined. Erasing the chalk board, he began a new grid labeled "means," "opportunity," "motive" on one axis and "suspects" on the other. He called Constables Jackson and Worsley over as well, dealing out the investigations to each man. "Gentlemen, we started out with a disadvantage, with so much evidence compromised and beginning a case so late after the assault. So, do your research first before you question anyone, and bring witnesses or suspects in for formal statements. We will regroup at shift-end."

# # #

George raced up the library steps, through large double doors and into a wide center hall. He heard sounds from the second floor, where two community meetings were taking place, and was certain that it was his compatriots that were causing the din. The ladies in the room opposite only conferred in hushed, genteel tones. Up another set of stairs and he was out of breath, needing to pause before entering the writer's meeting room, ten minutes after the official 6:30 pm starting time. From the stairwell, he listened as Rev. Abbott, Mr. Klein and Mrs. Ludwik regaled the others with their stories about being finger marked, and interviewed by the famous Detective William Murdoch. George experienced a small stab of jealousy: _the detective never seeks recognition but gets it anyway. I don't suppose it matters if it is fair or not._ Composed again, George entered the room and found a seat. Every one of the regulars was there most likely in hopes to hear all about Miss Morgan's murder and talk over their theories, ghoulish as that was. The only one missing was Miriam Pigeon, who had not attended last month either. George understood the impulse to want to know details of an investigation—it was hard not to incorporate elements of Station House No. 4's cases into his own writing; in fact he liberally borrowed from his job all the time to add a more realistic touch.

The banker, Marion Klein, had just finished, his awkward German syntax being more pronounced when he was excited. "It is a wonder I think I was not more nervous. See, I still have on my hands the finger mark ink." Klein was slightly built with an open face and of uncertain age. He often appeared anxious, but was as intelligent as he was generous. "Mr. Crabtree! What is the best I can use to take this off?" Mrs. Ludwik and the reverend waved their blackened hands in unison. George explained how to mix a concoction and scrub hard.

"Well, Constable Crabtree, what can you tell us?" Sebastian Fowler, a member who had not attended in a while, had his pen and paper out to capture anything that was said with his obsessive note-taking. He took notes all day long as a law clerk for Frederick Harcourt, ink staining his hands rather permanently.

George often thought Fowler would go insane if he were not writing. _Or maybe the writing is a form of insanity_. _If so it was one the nine of us share,_ he thought. He shook his head and put up his own hands. "Now, now. I am not able to tell you anything—it is an active investigation after all. If you have any information _for_ me I would be glad to hear it."

He looked from face to face around the room. He knew a little about most of them and could guess a bit more as well. Birdy Carillon, a nanny barely taller than some of the children she looked after, was pretty as well as pleasantly curvy underneath a tightly laced corset. She watched expectantly from behind her glasses, blonde hair piled high over her head and heels on her feet to give the illusion of more height. George knew she had designs on becoming a teacher, hoping to enroll at the Normal School as soon as she could get the tuition. Next to her was Renaldo Napoli, a New York transplant recently hired away from the famous Horace Mann School in the Bronx to be science teacher for Branksome Hall boarding school. He was single, in his mid-thirties, with commanding height and hair turning prematurely grey. George wondered how elite, repressed, Toronto gentry would get on with the brash American, _and his accent!_ Elizabeth Talbot, married and perhaps 60, but looking much younger with medium brown hair and pince-nez, mentored younger aspiring writers, especially ladies who appreciated her breezy style, unfussy directness and British sensibilities. The next member was Colleen Baird, a shop girl at Eaton's. Her bright red hair proclaimed her heritage, as did the soft accent when she spoke. She fantasized about Sherlock Holmes, resulting in most of the stories she wrote being re-workings of Conan-Doyle in one form or another. Her most recent story recast Mr. Holmes as a brilliant physician who could diagnose any obscure disease and Dr. Watson as a young colleague who treats cancer patients. George actually thought the concept intriguing but Miss Baird usually was not well received by all members of the group because she dared to not only appropriate the "Master" but stretch outside the boundaries of the original work. To his left, Mrs. Ludwik also had a pen and pad ready, as she usually did, and at George's right sat Reverend Abbott, replete with clerical collar tonight, rounding out the group. No one spoke up, but there was a general rustle of paper.

Since there was not going to be any helpful information to give to Constable Crabtree, Mrs. Talbot called the meeting to order, as it was her turn to lead this evening. "Ladies and Gentlemen, we only have until eight o'clock. Who is our first reader? Ah, Mr. Fowler—you have ten minutes."

# # #

Closing time came quickly, and despite the cold night air, a knot of writers lingered outside the on the library steps. Four of them caught George as he was trying to leave. "Mr. Crabtree! Wait a minute please," asked Mr. Napoli. "The ladies and I have a few questions."

George turned around, and came back to the bottom step to hear Mr. Napoli out. "According to the papers, if you read between the lines, there are no viable suspects for Miss Morgan's death. If she never went anywhere or did anything other than be here," Napoli gestured to the edifice behind him, "then it stands to reason there is a connection between her demise and this school."

Mrs. Ludwik nodded in agreement. "So, we were thinking. Who better to help catch her killer than a group such as ours, familiar with the victim and her place of employment?" Miss Carillon and Mrs. Talbot looked on hopefully.

"What do you mean?" George asked, horrified, his normally mild countenance in a grimace. "I must insist that you not interfere with the police investigation. It could be dangerous for you as well as foul up catching the actual killer. Civilians, amateurs such as yourselves, have no place in murder investigations!" He was worried now, because his words had no visible impact on the quartet in front of him.

Miss Carillon spoke, a smile sparkling her lovely face. "But Mr. Crabtree… _Constable_ …who better to catch a killer than people who spend all day planning and committing crimes?" She looked side to side at her companions: " _Writers_!"

George's eye rolled up into his sockets and he planted his hands on his hips in frustration. _This is not going to go well_ , he thought…

# # #

Julia brought herself over to the Station House at 7:00 pm, having given William an extra hour to run over on his investigation and have quiet space for contemplation or reflection at the end of his day. She found that if her husband got his mind settled at work, he was less likely to be preoccupied at home, and that this kind of recuperation was necessary for him. On the other hand, Julia was aware she selfishly enjoyed it when they threw ideas back and forth during an investigation, even when the topic followed them into their dining room or, for heaven's sake, _bed._ Tonight she had an agenda, and needed him in a good mood. Seeing him lodged pensively in front of his blackboard, she walked up behind, allowing him to become aware of her slowly as she came to his side.

"Julia. I apologize. I lost track of the time." He smiled at her and gave her a brief kiss on her cheek and a squeeze of her hand. He gestured to the grid displayed before them. "We have crossed off more than half the potential suspects, however there is so much more to go on. I wish we could narrow it down better."

She put her arm through his and read through the careful notations. "What are you looking for?"

William put his piece of chalk against the board. "Something that fits all the parameters—motive, means and opportunity. We have the means, but too much or too little of the other two."

"I understand a love letter figures prominently in this case. May I read it?" Julia inquired.

William retrieved it and handed it over. "It was found amongst her possessions; there is no salutation, no signature. George thinks it is evidence of her ability to rouse passions, a motive if you will, but we have no clue as to who her lover was."

Julia read aloud:

"' _ **I would not be being truthful if I told you I am fine without you—I am not…I find there is nothing I can do but wait it out until I can be with you again. Poets often write of feelings for their lover that are so sharp, so over powering that they cannot live without her. That's not quite it. I know, having been apart from you, it's that you**_ _ **don't**_ _ **live without her. I find my breathing difficult, and not in that heavenly way that happens when I am with you. It seems you are so intertwined in my life, with every aspect of my being, that each of my senses is tied to a memory of you by my side. I am overjoyed to know I will hold you tomorrow, my love'."**_

Julia stopped reading, her eyes located in that middle distance of deep contemplation or fantasy. Her colour was heightened and her lips curved in a beatific smile. After a few breaths she stirred, calling her awareness back to the room, and appraising William. "Well! That's quite lovely. I agree that whoever wrote this was indeed in a passionate frame of mind; it's quite romantic."

William blushed under her watchful gaze, wishing that it could have been he who put those moving words together which affected Julia so- since that page accurately captured a small portion of his feelings about her. He put the chalk down and kissed her, brushing his hands free of white dust. "Shall we?" William turned off his light and found his hat and coat. "Carriage or walking tonight?" he asked.

"Carriage I think. I am famished and wish to eat as soon as possible."

Their ride home was pleasant and dinner satisfying. Over dessert, Julia began her plan of attack. "William, I was thinking that you could accompany me to the Star Burlesque tomorrow or Saturday night. I found Miss Bloom to be quite intelligent, engaging, delightful as well. She certainly has a sense of humor that matches George's. I want to see her performance and the entire show, and now I have an excuse." She saw the objections forming on William's face, telegraphing his array of feelings from mild shock through embarrassment and on to irritation. Julia knew she needed to wait him out.

He put his fork down. "I suppose the way you asked means that you will go with or without me." He made it a statement. When she did not answer, he merely suppressed a sigh and took another bite of apple crisp. He chewed and watched his wife smile sweetly at him. William was not yet ready to accept his fate, and made himself be patient; occasionally the sort of tension building up between them involving interpersonal power struggles, required… _physical_ dissipation. He ran an appreciative glance over Julia's form-fitting plaid dress and then connected with her blue gaze. William smiled back, crinkling the corners of his eyes….


	5. Chapter 5

**-Chapter 5-**

 **Friday October 23**

Inspector Brackenreid cradled the telephone ear piece and groaned. _If I get one more phone call warning me off of questioning the Grangers, I will have to conclude that they are implicated in Miss Morgan's death and there is a massive conspiratorial cover up!_ He had yet to interview the family proper as he was still wading through their legal advisors, but was planning to have his first conversation before day's end with Mr. Granger, senior, at his club around 7:00 pm. Brackenreid checked his wall clock: It was just before noon and the Station House was empty except for the desk sergeant and guards in the cells, an uncharacteristically quiet day. Everyone was out either canvassing witnesses or checking alibies in the Morgan murder, or following up on a series of burglaries that happened over night on Jarvis. He almost missed having the drama between Higgins and Crabtree to break up the monotony. _Almost…_

He looked up from his desk to notice a small commotion in the lobby. One of the witnesses from yesterday was asking after George Crabtree, and he recognized Miss Love. He was about to go over there, when the constable himself came hurriedly through the door. The inspector decided to let George handle things, regretful now that there would be no break in his interminable paperwork.

"Mrs. Ludwik! Good gracious, what are you doing here?" George darted a glance into the inspector's office.

"I came to see you. I have information…" She paused, tight-lipped and waited. When he did not immediately offer to hear her out, she prodded him. "About Miss Morgan. Is there somewhere we can talk?"

George frowned, but put his notes aside and grabbed a clean pad of paper, escorting her to the interview room, out of earshot of his superior. "Mrs. Ludwik, I specifically told you to stay out of this."

She held a hand up. "I know that, but in all fairness, Miss Carillon, Mrs. Talbot and myself have been coming to the library and have known Miss Morgan for many years, and Mr. Napoli has been a staunch regular in the group. I may not have any newspaper stories under my byline as of yet, never –the- less I know a good story when I see one. I will tell you what we know if you give me something that I can take to my editor to get me a shot at the front page."

"It does not work that way. If you have information you need to just give it to me—anything else is obstruction…" George warned, but was sympathetic to her plea. They stared at each other silently for a minute or so. George broke first. "All right. What have you?"

"We pinned down that Miss Morgan was heard arguing with someone between about twelve forty-five and one o'clock pm on Monday; I assume you may know that fact already. This was not unusual in and of itself, as you know she could be abrupt or disagreeable at times. Moreover, no one was certain if it was a man or woman with whom she was arguing. What _was_ notable however, was she was upset enough to leave the library for a moment or two to compose herself before coming back to her desk. I also know that Mr. Brightman…expressed, shall we say, inappropriate romantic interest in Miss Morgan, and Miss Morgan was having none of it." She flipped her notebook over in satisfaction. "Now, I have a question for you, perhaps two…"

By the time George chivvied Mrs. Ludwik out onto the street, loading her down with some news story leads and admonitions given and promises extracted about "off the record" and "confidential sources," Detective Murdoch was back in his office and conferring with Inspector Brackenreid. George was seeking an opening to share all he learned from his fellow writer without it obviously being connected to her. Too late for subterfuge, Brackenreid called him over.

As is his wont, the inspector got to the point. "Crabtree, what was Miss Love doing here?" Detective Murdoch offered a penetrating look as well.

"Mrs. Ludwik, er…Miss Love, remembered something about Monday and came by to give us the additional information. She says that Miss Morgan was arguing with someone about a quarter to one on Monday—so much so that she needed to get a grip on herself afterward. Mrs. Ludwik pointed out everyone always signs in or out of the library. If Miss Morgan was at the desk, she indeed made sure everyone did." George went on, aware his superiors were skeptical that these "memories" were suddenly dredged up. "She also said that Mr. Brightman, in so many words, propositioned Miss Morgan, who reacted to this poorly. This was overheard by more than one library patron. Seems to me to be motive for silencing Miss Morgan."

Brackenreid reacted first. "Did Miss Love also name the perpetrator for us? Get their confession?" There was a dangerous edge in his voice. "If I find out you sent your friends on an investigation….."

"No! Sir! Absolutely not. Quite the opposite—I explained again at length that it was unwise and dangerous to get entangled in this case." George put on his most sincere face.

The inspector grunted. "We have seen before where a reporter made the news in order to get more column inches—Patty Glenn comes to mind…."

George nearly laughed out loud. "I can't imagine Mrs. Ludwik…."

William creased his brow. "And we have seen perpetrators insert themselves into investigations as way to confound us or control information…" He held up a hand to stop the constable from protesting. " _George!_ Do you want the list chronologically or alphabetically?"

George felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. "Sir…" he stuttered out.

The inspector came over and put a hand on George's shoulder. "Look, bug-a-lugs. Get your personal life straightened out—I think you are getting soft-headed about women…" He clucked between his teeth for emphasis. "Murdoch says Miss Love seems to admire that muckraking journalist Miss Ida Tarbell, which is the last thing we need around here at the moment. What we _do_ need is to go get Mr. Brightman in here again. Murdoch says Dr. Ogden has completed additional testing on Miss Morgan. There is no evidence she was a drinker of any kind, so we have caught Brightman in a lie; possibly two lies now."

"Before you do bring him in, try to get confirmation from someone _other_ than Miss Love, about the argument—or anything else she told you." William advised. George felt himself getting uncomfortable but squelched that down.

Henry Higgins announced himself to the desk sergeant at that moment. "Ah, Constable Higgins." William motioned the younger man over. "What have you discovered?"

Higgins approached and removed his helmet. "Actually nothing sir. What I mean is, I spent the morning at the land office. Turns out you were wrong, sir." He said to Detective Murdoch, looking rather pleased that he knew a fact that his detective did not. "According to the registrar, Miss Morgan's house belonged to her but the land did not, so the Grangers did not have the right to burn it down, as you suggested."

"So that is motive then to move her off," Brackenreid suggested.

Higgins tried not to smirk. "Wrong again, er… sir… Miss Morgan was finalizing plans to up and move the entire house to another piece of property she purchased. That sort of thing is done all the time I am told. The deal was set to go through next week. I think that lets the Grangers off the hook, since they knew about the arrangement."

The inspector let out a breath of relief. _My interview at six just got easier._ "So, right then. The Granger Family moves down on the list of suspects, and whomever she was arguing with moves up along with the long line of people whom she ticked off. You two," he pointed to Henry and George, "double check this new information Crabtree obtained about a supposed argument at the library and that Mr. Brightman was behaving improperly towards Miss Morgan. Get Brightman in here to check on his handwriting. We know his finger marks are not on that bloody letter you found, but you have not identified all the marks and maybe he wrote it somehow any way."

William handed them a page. "Here is a list of all the patrons who signed in and out all day Monday. Now look at the ones who signed _out_ around the time of the argument, roughly 12:45 pm to 1:00 pm and interview them. Then, please escort Clarence Brightman to the interview room, as soon as your confirmation is ready."

Detective and Inspector observed their constables settling up and getting ready for their next job. Brackenreid indicated he wanted to speak privately in William's office. Once there, the older man pointed at the investigation as it was laid out in black and white. "Murdoch, it looks to me like you have been whittling down the suspects."

William shook his head. "Yes. The problem, sir, is that I am indeed running out of _plausible_ suspects."

"What is it Conan Doyle said? Whenever you eliminate the impossible whatever is left has to be the truth? Keep at it me ol' mucker." With that, the inspector went back to his office and William went back to unhappily erasing his blackboard.

Crabtree and Higgins eye-balled each other and shrugged simultaneously. They were used to working together so it was not hard to divide up the tasks and get back out onto the street quickly. Walking side by side, Henry nudged his companion. "George," He asked quietly, "on our way over, I will treat you to lunch if you haven't eaten yet. I was thinking of one of those hot meat sandwiches…"

George knew Henry was not really all that sorry for his unkind comments about Nina, and also knew Henry took a long time to apologize, sometimes doing so rather indirectly. He considered refusing until his stomach growled. "All right, as long as we do not discuss my personal life." _It is a start,_ he thought.

They walked companionably enough before Higgins piped up again. "Do you think Inspector Brackenreid will get the post as Chief Constable, George? I know he wants it."

George walked on a few paces and chuckled. "Well, Henry, considering the _last_ three we have had, we could do worse…" Higgins laughed right along, almost like old times.

# # #

 _ **# Writing #**_

 _ ******** Well, I never! This is outrageous! Here it is, pushed off the front page, down below the fold on page eight of the evening edition.**_ _ **Below the fold**_ _ **on an even-numbered page where no one ever looks. I bet the Bride will be so disappointed, but even I must admit her writing is tight and succinct. It seems I cared more about that old Busybody than this rag can spare the time for; ('than for which they can spare the time?' No, that seems awkward, no flow.) I made the time for her out of my busy schedule; squeezed her in, as it were, at the last minute. How soon the public will forget: from Wednesday to Friday—in three days wiped from consideration as if her life was worthless. I at least put some thought into her death—the public no longer cares because she made no impact on them; they had no connection with her. MY connection with her was intimate, was genuine. Heart- felt! I can say that because I remember the feeling of my own heart pounding. I used to think that was a cliché, but no! And it was so absolutely exhilarating. I can replay the scene over and over again in my mind to endlessly experience the thrill. And it turned out so much better than I ever imagined. As helpful as she usually was at the library, she was never so helpful as she was Monday night. To my shame, I realize I never thanked her and I really should. It is good form to thank individuals who have helped with or inspired good writing, so I must make a note to mention her in my acknowledgements section.**_

 _ **Of course they do not suspect me, dutifully following misdirection and thereby providing me more ideas than I had thought workable. I must thank them as well. Verisimilitude, to which I aspire, requires layers of sensuality. "Truth is stranger than fiction" said Byron, but Twain said it best: fiction has to stay within the bounds of possibility. My new method is working splendidly, by all indicators. The reader can only unharness belief up to a point before irritation creeps in, destroying the spell, and I have overcome that excellently. I am almost finished polishing that story to send along and am already anticipating my next one. I have so intricately plotted out an elegant story arc, build-up and dénouement paired in lovely sweeps of prose. With a new protagonist—nothing but the best for this one. I just know this will be the one, the perfect murder. Once I set the plot in motion all I really have to do is tell the story scene by scene, chapter by chapter, almost like taking dictation. All will be ready before nightfall. He will never see it coming… *********_

 **# # #**

William Murdoch glared at Clarence Brightman, chipping away at the other man's obstinacy as the clock ticked off the minutes past six, then six-thirty. Every other persuasion left the man unmoved, and his inspector was ghosting outside the interview room looking like he would be willing to take over a more physical interrogation. They had already determined the supposed love letter was not an obvious match to Brightman's handwriting. Higgins and Crabtree divided up Monday's sign-in ledger pages between them and took off in separate directions to hunt the names down. All but one of the people who were on the library list had been located. Crabtree found an actual witness who overheard Miss Morgan and Brightman arguing at just about the right time of day, and Higgins found another who saw Miss Morgan slap him the previous week, but nothing more substantial. The detective knew Brightman was withholding something, he just did not know exactly _what_. William was frustrated and let it show, reaching over the table and slapping his right hand, his white cuff and cuff link making a startling, flashing arc in the room. "Mr. Brightman, I have had enough. You will cooperate or your choices are being charged with obstruction or held on suspicion of murder. You pick!"

"Detective, you must understand. I cannot be involved in any scandal of any kind. I have hopes to be appointed to a new position at McGill." Brightman's face was red.

William heard the subtle shift, trying to bargain instead of stonewall. Knowing he had the right wedge in now, he just needed to tap a little harder to get Brightman to split open. _Sometimes police work is just like logging,_ he thought. "You should have considered that before. Now, tell me what happened. The truth this time!"

Brightman's shoulders slumped. "Yes. Miss Morgan and I had a brief dalliance—mutual I assure you, no matter what anyone else says. That is how I knew there were alcohol bottles in her house—I visited her once there. What a shocking place that was! And she did… _remonstrate_ me last week. But our argument Monday was purely about work, detective. She wanted to talk to me about what a library patron was reading and checking out. She wanted to complain about what someone was reading!" William noticed Brightman looked more outraged about that than anything else so far. "Can you imagine that violation? Unspeakable."

William was cautious now. "Why hide that from me, from the investigation?"

"Detective! There is nothing more sacred to me than a universal right to free expression and knowledge. I let Miss Morgan know that I would not tolerate that. I had no reason to harm her. In reality I was considering firing her for her ethical lapse, but changed my mind—she was excellent as a librarian." Brightman folded his arms and sat back in the chair. "Our disagreement was after her luncheon break at two o'clock on Monday. She certainly did not leave my office crying about it. I just panicked, I suppose when I went there and found her Tuesday morning." Unfortunately, despite the oddity of the man's thinking about the hierarchy of ethical lapses, William believed him, leaving him nowhere again with this investigation.

Inspector Brackenreid met William outside the interview room door, and commiserated with the detective. "Well, Murdoch. Our head librarian is a cad and a twit, but I don't think he is our killer. His alibi is pretty solid since Dr. Ogden narrowed down the window of time for the assault. Speaking of time, I must be off to visit Mr. Josiah Granger. Finish up with Brightman and send him on his way."

William scratched his forehead. "I have to agree sir." Reluctantly, he let Brightman go, and erased another square on his chalkboard before going home.

 **# # #**

Later Friday night, William was enjoying a more successful investigation with respect to his wife's satin nightgown, after she had rolled over and woke him up with amorous intentions. A sharp knock on their suite door interrupted the pair, accompanied by a frantic call for "Detective!" "Doctor!" With a different sort of reluctance, William changed gears and came to the door, hauling a robe over his shoulders and pulling shut the French doors that separated their bedroom from foyer, to give Julia privacy. At the door a hotel staff member nearly fell into the room in his haste to reach William and Julia. William recognized him as one of the cooks.

"Oh thank god! You must come sir. It's terrible. Jeffry… Mr. Washington, the night clerk. He's dead in the lobby!"

William spoke mildly. "Slow down, Mr. Fitch. Has someone called the station house?"

"Yes. And woken the manager. Please come down. They'll be here any minute." Before William could ask more, Marcus Fitch bolted away, the noise of his progress provoking an opening of a few doors for the curious to peek out at the scene.

William noted the time: 1:35 am. He retreated to find his clothes and help Julia dress quickly and arrange her hair in a simple knot. William resumed the suit he had on earlier that day and the two descended to the lobby, where the body of young Mr. Washington lay on the floor between the desk which held the hotel registry and the rear credenza which held mail boxes, hotel stationary, pens and the telephone. He was dressed in his new red wool hotel livery, the skin on his handsome dusky face looked dull, and his brown eyes held a faded surprise,. The hotel manager had also been roused and was nervously pacing across the lobby floor. Fortunately there were no hotel guests and no travelers off the streets gawking over the tragedy, at least so far. Off to one side was a young maid with white apron over black dress next to the stable hand, each trying not to look at the body. Marcus was planted by the stairs next to the bell-man and a gentleman wearing a wool coat and gloves, who ran his hat brim left then right through his fingers and back again while taking it all in. Julia officially determined it was indeed the corpse of Jeffry Washington, something obvious to all.

"Julia?" William said softly. "What caused Mr. Washington's death? I see no wounds. Could it be illness or some other natural cause?" William had liked young Washington, barely out of his teens, and so proud of his recent promotion to night clerk at such a well-regarded hotel as the Windsor.

"Well, I am not sure." Julia turned Washington's head, feeling his temperature through her fingers and the flexibility of his flesh. "He has not been dead long. There are no abrasions, I feel no broken bones, no head wound. All I see is this little bit of blood in his left ear." She bent closer. "Oh, my. This might be something…" Julia turned his head to capture better light. "I think he's been stabbed _through_ the ear. By something very long and thin." Julia looked up at her husband and stood. "Poor Mr. Washington. I am sorry, but I judge this to be murder William, hardly any accident."

Hearing this the maid sobbed, and all eyes locked on the detective. He consulted his watch for the exact time: one-forty am. Taking a small notebook from his jacket, he wrote the names of the staff, all of whom he knew, and then turned his attention to the unidentified gentleman with the hat. "I am detective William Murdoch of the Toronto Constabulary. And you are?" he inquired.

"Good evening, detective. I am Sebastian Fowler. I have been a guest here for about a week and I'm afraid it was I who found the body of that young man when I came in this evening, or rather early this morning from my club." Fowler extended his hand in courtesy. "This is quite upsetting, is it not?" Fowler was slightly stooped with faded ginger hair and long dry fingers. His pair of round glass lenses magnified lively black eyes.

Fowler agreed to wait to have his statement taken, while William met two officers from the night watch who came to secure the scene, after which Julia and he made a more extended examination of the young man's body and the area where he lay. "William, I'd like to call the morgue and take the body now, may I? I will try for a preliminary cause of death tonight and then complete the autopsy tomorrow. "

William agreed and sought out Sebastian Fowler for interview. The facts were straightforward: Mr. Fowler found no one attending the lobby when he came in at around 1:25 or 1:30 am and wanted his mail. He peered over the desk, saw the clerk down on the floor, knew something was wrong and sought help. As there was no one in the lobby and no one immediately available in the hotel office, he tried the kitchen where he located Marcus Fitch to come see to Mr. Washington. Mr. Fitch followed at once and saw the night clerk on the floor and raised the alarm to the rest of the staff on duty: only one stable hand, plus one maid and one bell-man from 1:00 am to 5:00 am. William knew this hour of the night was usually very quiet with little or no traffic in the lobby, even on a Friday night. Mr. Fowler saw no one enter or leave the hotel lobby, nor did he hear anything. He had merely come home to find a dead body behind the desk, and said he knew enough about the legal side of things to not go anywhere near it. Fowler added that his occupation was law clerk, for a firm that William recognized was one of the most prestigious in town.

"I made some notes, detective, to help my own recollection while I was waiting for the police to be called. I was surprised when instead I saw that you came down from the rooms; at first I assumed you were merely a guest such as myself." William did not explain other than to say he resided at the Windsor and accepted the man's neat jottings with thanks, before adding them to his own interview notations. He released Fowler with a request to be available later on if a more formal statement as necessary. The law clerk disappeared up the stairs, presumably to his own bed.

Constable Worsley arrived through the hotel doors, followed closely by Higgins, just as the morgue wagon left with Julia and the body. As the on-call constables for Friday night, William tasked them with finding out from the night watch about any suspicious activities, then having them canvass the area for witnesses, looking as well at staff whose shifts overlapped Mr. Washington's. William sat down with the hotel manager to learn more about Washington's employment and obtained the address of the young man's parents. William left word to rouse Constable Crabtree to help tonight, and then in the morning, begin making the usual inquiries about the victim's background. William got his coat and hat to set off with the solemn duty of informing James and Jessie Washington, their son would not be coming home.

 **# # #**

 _ **# Writing #**_

 *****A delicious prickle down my back between my shoulder blades, and my flesh shakes. A throb in my neck where an artery is asserting itself. My mouth watering… I thought my mouth would be dry. But, No! My life force is surging, not abating. It is even better from this vantage point specifically because I am watching and he is oblivious. How is it, I wonder, that my strong presence fails to pull him to me exactly the way a compass needle is inherently, unerringly, grabbed north? Ah, but then again it is really me who is captivated, is it not? I am the one who needs to know fate's verdict…I am as eager as any reader eschewing sleep or waking obligations, turning pages with quick, trembling fingers, pushing the eye and brain ever faster to reach the end. Asking only, 'Oh, how will it end'? *****

 **# # #**


	6. Chapter 6

**-Chapter 6-**

 **Saturday, October 24**

William and Julia had a brief exchange about the night clerk's death at about 4:45 am, when she confirmed the cause of death was a single stab wound to the head, entering through the man's left ear at a nearly perpendicular angle. Death was probably swift. William was glad he had not told an untruth to young Washington's parents when they has pressed him for details and he had answered their distraught questions. Julia went back to the Windsor to get some sleep while William worked the case. Time of death was established between 12:30 am and 1:30 am. Since William knew that Washington was alive just before one in the morning based on a witness statement, which gave barely a half-hour window for the crime. Usually having a narrow time-frame was positive for an investigation, focusing efforts efficiently.

By 8:30 am on Saturday, William had all the information sorted and was feeling stumped. He refreshed himself at the sink in the Station Houseward room and changed his shirt, ruminating as he did so. William observed: _Hotel living, for all the modern conveniences, was not as secure as I wished, and not as private either._ A murder happened essentially right under his nose, basically downstairs in his own 'home,' and there were no witnesses, no known motive and no clues. Finger mark evidence in a hotel lobby was a nightmare. The best that Julia came up with was that a very long, thin blade did the damage. He remembered a message spike sat prominently on the hotel lobby desk, so on a whim, he sent Higgins to locate it. It had still been there, clear of visible staining, with no blood on any of the paper messages still impaled by it. William tested it with his luminescent spray and it glowed, indicating blood residue, so he saved it for Julia to have her fit it to the wound track when she returned to the morgue for a thorough autopsy. That was it. A body and possible weapon. Nothing else.

Inspector Brackenreid's colorful colloquialism of the day was "Crikey" when William filled him in before the 8:00 am inspection and report for the day shift. The morning edition of the _Gazette_ got most of the facts right, along with a hefty dose of editorial comment about the general veniality of Man and the audacity of the crime, managing to mention it happened in the very hotel _"Toronto's premiere detective, William Murdoch, resided."_ The inspector chose not to needle Murdoch about it, but it did put Station House No. 4 in a bad light.

Afterwards, waiting for Higgins, Crabtree and Worsley to filter in from their over-night activities, the inspector grumbled to his detective: "What is going on with you, then? I expect our lover-boy, Crabtree, to be off his game what with his new sweetheart addling his brains, but for you to have two cases going nowhere at the same time is unusual." The inspector saw a woefully blank grid with a single, question-marked word **'Spike?'** under the column for **'Means,'** and **'1:00 – 1:30'** under ' **Opportunity.'** He muttered. "No motive you say? And no suspects."

William made a face, accepting the muted jab but not liking it either. "None, sir."

Brackenreid, who had had a full night of rest following an enjoyable evening of Shakespeare at the theatre, objected. "There is no such thing as a motiveless crime, even if we don't understand it. But I'll tell you this: it takes some big brass ones to kill a man in what is essentially _public,_ and then just waltz away."

Behind them, Constable Crabtree arrived trailing Worsley and Higgins. Henry was the only one still looking chipper, the other two were on the sullen side. With nothing useful in the reports they gave, William understood the sentiment. He bade them thanks, making new assignments for the rest of the morning and sending Worsley home to bed. He was trying to shoo Henry out of his office, but the younger man was glued to the chalkboard.

Henry called over to the bull pen. "George! Have you ever noticed that detective Murdoch's slate here is similar to that story contest you like?"

George came back in. "What are you talking about Henry?"

"You know, that magazine contest. You get a set of instructions and have to submit a story. I know _you_ must be doing that; even I tried it." Henry seemed pleased to say so.

George joined him to see what Henry was on about, with Brackenreid following. William came back around to stare at the three officers who were in turn staring at his chalkboard. "Gentlemen, what is so interesting?" William asked with a puzzled expression at George.

"Henry here thinks that your method for identifying and eliminating suspects matches a writing contest in the _Star Magazine_. There is a section called _"Writers' Ink"_ which offers a prize each month for a short story they choose to publish, from writers who submit manuscripts." George looked sideways at Henry. " _You_ sent in a story?"

"The prize is $75.00. For that kind of money who wouldn't? It's not that hard to write a story." Henry added a cheeky grin. "If you can do it, why not me?"

William was still lost. "What has that got to do with this case?"

"I'm just saying it is interesting that there are elements of this murder that fit October's instructions. And don't writers like to do research? Look." Henry pointed at the board. "This month the requirement of the story includes a male stranger to be killed by stabbing with no attempt to cover up the crime or hide the body. I can't remember the other parts."

William's eye brows tented. "That is likely coincidence, Henry," but his mind started to wheel. "How does this work and what are the other elements?"

George gave the list. "Sir. Each month a code appears in the magazine. You decode it and must write a story and submit it within thirty days. You send in your manuscript plus seventy five cents and a synopsis of how you used the coded elements. The editors pick one, based on how many of their staff like the story. So, for instance, a story written according to the instructions in the October issue of the magazine and submitted by November first, is chosen to be published in the January issue."

William's curiosity was peaked. "But why a code?"

George explained. "It's quite clever really. It is all supposedly done with a roll of the dice by the magazine editor. Even-odd, or 1 through 6. Even it is a male victim; odd a female. Even the perpetrator tries to run away, odd they stay put, etcetera. Do they hide the body or not? Do they know the victim or not? Do they cover up the crime, or not? Is the perpetrator male or female? Then you have 1 through 6 for choices in each category of motive, means and opportunity. You have one month to write and submit a complete story, at the word-count they want. Having code makes it like part of a club of sorts; only those in the 'know' are part of it."

"To what end?" William was still not clear on the concept.

"Because actual criminals, like writers, tend to have habits, or tricks they favour. Someone likes to use a certain kind of knife or likes to use his hands in the commission of their crimes; it's what they are comfortable with. Have we not seen that in our investigation of crimes? Criminals become predictable and that is how we catch them, at least in part. They burgle the same neighborhoods, use the same tools to break in. Writers can bore their audience if the same techniques or the same kinds of plot devices are used all the time. By having the elements of the plot be fixed by a roll of the dice, it makes it more interesting and less predictable and therefore more challenging for reader and writer. I would say, more enjoyable." George grimaced. "And harder too, if you are to get a good story without too many holes or errors in it. " He was indeed submitting a story each month, and not yet done with his own for October, having gotten sidetracked by Nina Bloom. "One minute…"

George went to his desk, riffled through it and came back with a magazine page. "Sir, to submit a story by the end of October, the writer must use this code:

 **'E – E – O – O – E - E – 5 - 1 - 1'**

which was printed in the September issue of the _Star_ can see it is put inconspicuously on a random page of the magazine, making hunting for it is part of the game. That code translates into a male perpetrator, who stays and does not run away, does not hide the body and did not know the victim, did not cover up the crime, and the victim must be male as well. The number 'five' is for "Motive", in the this case pride of some sort; the next number, which is 'one' is "Means", indicated stabbing; and the final number 'one' is for "Opportunity" which stands for "the perpetrator must lie in wait for the victim." George paused. "It _is_ rather like your chalkboard, detective."

William gave a hard look back at the constable, thinking it was _not at all_ the same. "How many people do this, George?" he asked.

"I imagine hundreds, each month, perhaps more; even thousands-and from all over the world. _The Star_ is trying to compete with _The Strand_ in publishing stories." George squinted at Henry meaningfully but held his tongue.

Brackenreid weighed in. "It sounds like a scheme to me—to get people to buy the bloody magazine and to get the submission fees from all those would-be writers." _On the other hand seventy-five dollars is a whole lot of money for a few words on a page,_ sending the inspector's mind on a tangent.

"Indeed." William agreed, telling himself it sounded rather foolish; it was also why he did not enjoy fiction—too many flights of fancy and errors of logic, needlessly stretching of facts or employing scientific nonsense for dramatic effects. "So you are positing an association between this stabbing death and the contest?"

Henry continued, "Or between the school or library and the contest—or your writer's group, George. That Mr. Fowler, isn't he in your group?"

George's head whipped around. "What…?"

Henry snickered mildly. "I guess you didn't know yet. He's the one found the night clerk's body. Was it by chance or was he meant to find it? Like that love letter—was that found by chance or were we meant to find it?" Henry looked at his fellow officers; he expected support from George, but all he got back was a disconcerted blink. "Well?"

William was frustrated. "Constable. That is fiction and a story, not reality; besides, anyone in Toronto, or according to George, _the world,_ could be submitting stories. It strains logic that it has to be George's group or that library…" William said that while another part of his mind was seeing the overlap.

George interrupted. "I think Henry here has a point, sir. We should ask the people from my group to come down for questioning—all of us _do_ submit stories for the contest and it is a place to start. We could take finger marks, samples of handwriting…" He went on faster when he saw William start shaking his head. "Hear me out. I have heard you say you do not believe in coincidences, is that not so, detective? There are two deaths, with connections in a round-about way to the Normal School library and members of my writing group, and no connection at all between the victims themselves."

Unfortunately, William could not immediately refute the logic. Before he could speak, the inspector decided it all _for_ them.

"Gentlemen. You have my attention…." Brackenreid fished his watch out of a pocket, checked and snapped it shut with a flick of his wrist, "…and nine hours until end of shift. No shirking anything else that comes along; you don't get to go home and get any shut-eye, either. Crabtree, I want to see those contest rules and that code of yours on my desk, and I want see this chalkboard," he stuck a thumb over at the large, mostly blank vertical surface, "filled up with motive, confirming the means, how the opportunity was arranged, and a suspect or two. For _both_ crimes. The rest of the day shift will follow up less fanciful areas of inquiry." He threw a hooded look at George, who quailed a bit at the attention. "As for you…Before _you_ investigate any further, we need an alibi for you for both crimes, because in case you didn't notice, you just buggered yourself into being a suspect!" Brackenreid let his face drive home the irony, and quipped: " _Well done, Sunshine!_ "

# # #

After a certain amount of embarrassment about his alibi (Miss Bloom) and even more wrangling, it was decided George would obtain addresses from library records for the ten in his writing group and telephone those that had numbers, asking if they would spare some time to come down to the Station House by 6 pm. Those without telephone connections were visited in person to request their presence for an interview. Henry was given the job to check each of their whereabouts for both murders and follow up to match their statements to any alibies offered. The one elusive person was a past attendee of the group, a young woman, about 18 or 19 years old, named Miriam Pigeon. The library, it seemed, did not have her correct address. William sent Henry to track her down on the off chance she would have something valuable to contribute.

 _Never had it been so easy to get witnesses to cooperate,_ William considered, as George's literary colleagues filed in _._ This confirmed for him that these people were using the murder investigations as an opportunity for the "research" Higgins talked about, and found excuses to give various employers and family about where they were being summoned. _Writers!_ He groaned to himself. _I would not be surprised if one of them shows up with a camera…_

William crafted his list of questions and decided on the order of interviews. He'd completed four unremarkable sets of face to face questions: Mrs. Ludwik, Mr. Klein, Reverend Abbott and Miss Baird; five if he included George. Mr. Fowler gave his preliminary answers over the phone, saying if necessary he could come by in person as soon as his duties permitted and he was released from taking an important deposition. The only new information William uncovered was the Reverend's embarrassing secret that he writes romance stories under a female pen name, something that would not sit well with his congregation – _Or his wife_ , William believed. William kept that aside as a possible motive if Miss Morgan knew the secret and was going to reveal it, potentially ruining the reverend. _What else did she know?_ William thought about the kinds of information to which she would have been privy or could have stumbled upon. He remembered how upset Mr. Brightman was at the thought that Miss Morgan would disclose a patron's reading selections, but was frustrated he could not make that into a motive, yet….

What irritated William further was that it was obvious Mrs. Ludwik, Miss Carillon, Mr. Napoli and Mrs. Talbot were trying to solve the librarian's murder on their own regardless of being asked to not interfere. That made their statements somewhat suspect in his opinion. He also kept in mind that perpetrators often install themselves into the investigation, read about it in the papers, become invested… he hoped that was not the case with any of these four. Writing samples, paper samples, alibies—so far George and Henry's ideas were not producing concrete results.

Birdy Carillon had presented herself with a rambunctious toddler who was more than ready for his two o'clock nursery snack. Despite her short stature and the restrictions of a corset, Miss Carillon deftly brought the lad into control just about the time William was going to offer to take him off her hands. He found he was momentarily disappointed when she said, "I have this, detective," and he admired how she managed the boy, especially having had his own, albeit brief, turn at supervising a child. She explained the sort of writing she enjoyed, heartfelt or dramatically emotional vignettes, declaring "plots" were not her strong suit. "That is why the writing contest appealed to me since the bones of a plot are already set out by the magazine. It certainly pays better than what I get for making poems for greeting cards." She thought she recognized the paper stock the alleged 'love letter' was written on, but as it was an odd size, she was not sure of its provenance. "One of the ladies in our group, Miriam Pigeon, had paper like that, but I am fairly sure that is not her handwriting. It is too large to be hers. In any event, I have not seen her in months." Miss Carillion could not think of any connection between Miss Morgan's death and the night clerk's, but supported the idea that Miss Morgan racked up disgruntled acquaintances with alarming frequency.

# # #

Instead of a child, Mrs. Talbot was accompanied by a small, very well-behaved dog, whose brown fur complemented the woman's severely tailored suit. William's overall impression of Elizabeth Talbot was that she was very sensible, while her pince-nez hung on a bright ribbon, rather than the usual chain or dull back string, hinting at something _more_ than met the eye. He found himself compelled to ask: "Mrs. Talbot, if I may… What draws you to writing these stories? I understand you have been writing for quite a while, travelogues, articles for special interest and Ladies' magazines, even a feature or two, published here and abroad, written under your own name…"

She smiled, looking at him directly with a level gaze. "You mean, detective, why do I consort with the less literary or less acceptable side of things, outside the usual boundaries, or good breeding, of an English lady's existence?" She kept his eyes until he acknowledged her and had the grace to blush a little. "I came here to Canada more than forty years ago as a very young bride when some of this was barely-cleared frontier land. I have learned to do many things that might surprise you—surprised myself, truth be told. To answer your question, I enjoy the format of the short story and the freedom of fiction; writing under a pseudonym allows me whatever scope I choose, not one imposed by others."

"Mrs. Talbot, what did you think of Miss Morgan? Do you know of anyone who would wish her ill?"

"I know very little about her private life, detective." She looked down the canine at her feet. "Well, that is not quite true. She loved dogs. I remember she was quite upset about that series of poisonings of local dogs—there was a news article about that in the _Gazette_ and a flyer put up in the library warning people to keep an eye on their pets. I was aware she was a somewhat difficult personality, but I am mature enough to not take that very personally. I know of no enemy."

Having satisfied his curiosity, he brought out the document that concerned him.

Elizabeth Talbot agreed that the 'love letter' paper looked like Miss Pigeon's, who had often used the reverse side of letters, scrap pages, even wrapping paper and bags she cut up for paper, before she obtained an actual notebook for writing. Mrs. Talbot explained in rich English tones: "She was such a quiet little thing, detective, but you could tell she was smart. She listened, took everything in, and she confided in me once she desperately wanted to win that $75.00 cheque. Some people are interested in the "fame", if you will, seeing their name printed as an author. Some are interested in the process of writing or to even be able to call themselves a writer, for the cachet I suppose," she made a small frown, "or the pretension. I assume some like to be praised for what they write—souls addicted to accolades. Those are intangible rewards for writing, detective. Miss Pigeon, on the other hand, wanted the money; that was her goal. I am surprised she stopped coming to the group—we were all quite fond of her."

She put the letter back down. "As for this, I can say that is not her handwriting. In fact, I would say it was Mr. Napoli's penmanship."

William had a suspicion that was so, after he'd gotten the idea of comparing writing in the library sign-in ledger to the letter. "Mrs. Talbot, the police have been unable to locate Miss Pigeon. Her address is inaccurate in the library register and her name appears nowhere in Toronto area census records. Do you know anything about where she lived?"

"Oh dear. Miss Morgan would not have liked that, as she was very particular about her records. No, detective Murdoch, I have no idea where she lives, but I believe she has a cousin who might. Every Thursday in the library, right across from our meeting room is a class on hand-work for women. It is a way for women to have a clean, decent living, and is sponsored by a guild of some kind. That is how Miss Pigeon first came to join us—she was attending the hand-work classes with her cousin and was drawn more to what we were talking about than how to tat or make Battenberg lace. Miss Pigeon would occasionally have some sewing with her while we discussed writing, but her heart was not in the lacework. I am sorry, I don't know her cousin's name."

# # #

Inspector Brackenreid caught William before the next interview, pointing out the time. "You have spent nearly all day on this, Murdoch. Crabtree rounded them up and Higgins has cleared most of them of any opportunity to have assaulted Miss Morgan or stabbed Mr. Washington." He brought out a sheet of paper. "I have been looking at this little writing contest, and it is actually interesting. Might give it a try myself..." He looked pleased about the idea until he saw Murdoch give a pained expression. "What about this Miss Pigeon? It seems like she does not really exist or if she did she has disappeared. Is there any chance she is involved?"

"Julia thinks a woman could have wielded both weapons—neither victim was a very large person, and I suppose a woman would not raise defenses the way a man would. But what motive?" William let out an exasperated breath. "We do keep going back to her one way or the other; I'm afraid we will need to satisfy ourselves about her eventually, sir, so I am having George and Henry check on a lead one of the witnesses helped us develop. In the meanwhile, I have Mr. Napoli waiting. He came over right after his classes were finished for the day. I have notes here from Henry indicating Mr. Napoli left the Horace Mann School in the States about the same time there was a scandal erupting there. I think he seems to be hiding something and I want to know what that is. I know I can now prove he wrote the so called 'love letter', so he owes us an explanation of how it got into Miss Morgan's house."

"There is motive for you. His whereabouts are a little shaky for Mr. Washington's death as well. He lives at that fancy boarding school he teaches at, but no one keeps track of the teachers like they do the students. Branksome Hall is a ways out from the Normal School or Miss Morgan's house, but Napoli manages to get into town regularly enough." Brackenreid tapped his hand on the page he was still holding. "Do the interview and come see me—I am going to make a little chart of my own for us to look at."

# # #

For what seemed like the umpteenth time today, a very tired detective William Murdoch sat across from a person who had literary aspirations. Renaldo Napoli seemed to be in a good humour, not nervous at all, and hardly wrung out from his classroom duties with his starched collar and suit looking immaculate. On the other hand, William knew that as a teacher, Mr. Napoli would need to have a strong command of his classroom and be naturally hard to intimidate in most circumstances. If not for this investigation, William might have enjoyed their conversation, recognizing that in another life, he could have become a teacher himself, probably in math or the physical sciences. Instead, William led Napoli swiftly through the preliminaries, finger-marking and on to the meat of the interview.

"Mr. Napoli, it has come to our attention that you have not been completely forthcoming with the constabulary. You claim you had no romantic relationship with Miss Morgan, yet we found a letter from you in her possession, one that is very clearly intimate in nature. This is your handwriting, is it not?" William slid the letter across the table for Napoli to read. "Are you going to tell me the truth now? What exactly was the nature of your relationship with Miss Morgan and where were you, exactly, on Monday evening?" He was gratified that the other man did not deny he wrote it, but he expected something other than a smile appearing on his olive-skinned face.

Napoli's shoulder relaxed. "Of course I wrote this. But it is not what you think." He paused and pulled up a leather brief case, opened the buckle and brought out several sets of bound pages. "That page is a draft for one of my, er… published works. I am sure I either discarded it or one of the other writers cribbed the page from me—we are always doing that with each other. See?" He brought up a manuscript and flipped quickly through it, finally locating the page he wanted. "Here is the final version. I separated it into two passages and added more. Read it yourself." Napoli passed the marked pages over to the detective.

William scanned the paragraphs, finding himself mildly envious of the ability of words on a page to deliberately evoke reactions. He set them down and cleared his throat. "Yes, well. That still does not exclusively prove you did not write this as a love letter to Miss Morgan, and then only later incorporate it into your manuscript."

"Perhaps. But detective, I assure you I did not. Miss Morgan and I saw each other as colleagues I suppose, having a certain sensibility as teachers, that is all. She would complain to me occasionally about work or the administration of the Normal School and I think she was trying to see if there was an opening for Librarian at Branksome."

If the letter was not provoking anxiety for Mr. Napoli, William did notice there was no answer to the question about where he was at the time of Miss Morgan's assault, meaning it was that which he was hiding. "Mr. Napoli—where were you the evening of Monday October 19th? You still need an alibi. No one at the school can absolutely verify your whereabouts. " At that Napoli sat back, clutching his briefcase as if he needed protection—or the contents of the case needed defending, the detective was not sure which. William pressed: "I am waiting, sir."

Napoli seemed unable to make his mouth work. After a long silence, he set the case down on the table. "Detective. I did not harm Miss Morgan. I was nowhere near her home; I don't even know where exactly it is. I was with my, um… publisher."

"Can he vouch for you, come in and swear a statement to that effect?" William thought he knew the answer, but Napoli surprised him.

The teacher made a bold move. "I suppose, he could but I would really not like that to happen. That document would be part of the official police record, would it not? And since I am not under arrest, I don't have to answer any more questions, do I?"

William ran the permutations. "If you force me to arrest you then that is when it becomes official police business. If you answer me truthfully now and we can corroborate your story, then it becomes merely private notations; part of the investigation, but not public." He hated negotiating with a suspect, and he _did_ consider him to _be_ a suspect. Renaldo Napoli was sitting so stiffly in the chair it looked painful. Eventually he took out a paper and pen, writing a name and address on it in large bold handwriting.

Napoli's audaciousness fled. "Detective Murdoch. Please. You _must_ understand. If any slightest word about his gets out, I will lose my position, my reputation, everything." He was pleading with as much dignity as he could muster. "I love teaching; it is not just what I do, it is who I am. Perhaps you understand that, from your own experience? I get the feeling you do not separate who you are from your profession, am I right? The thing is, I am not very well paid at Branksome Hall and to pay my debts I write… well, they are chap-books with suggestive stories in them, titillating adventures…" Napoli was blushing, sweat beaded on the side of his temple, "…under the pseudonym Ray Pemme." Now it was Napoli's turn to be surprised.

Across the table, William found himself smiling, recalling his time in Buffalo during the Pan American Exposition at Ettie Weston's pseudo "Subscription Library Reading Room", really a high-end brothel which contained an impressive collection of pornography of all kinds, banned books and the erotic chap-books of which Julia had been so fond. He even recognized the author's name. _Julia did love those stories…_

"And how about Friday night?"

"I was writing in my rooms. I am very careful to do that in private, detective. I did do bed check at midnight, so I suppose one of the students may have recalled me."

William cleared his expression and stood, shaking his head. _What is it with these writers and their secrets?_ "I see. Mr. Napoli, we will check your publisher, but assuming he will vouch for you, you will be free to go. And there will be no need for further inquiry." He saw Mr. Napoli nearly melt with relief. "Before I go, answer me this. You are the first one who seems to have had a convivial relationship with Miss Morgan. Do you have any theories on who might want to harm her?"

Napoli gave it some thought. "Miss Morgan loved her books, detective. Without disparaging her, she just wasn't very good with people, if you know what I mean. She never made friends easily, I suppose because she was entirely too serious all the time, and had difficulty engaging in small talk. What lit her passion was books and working in a library. And she watched everyone and everything in that library, like a sharp-eyed hawk seeking field mice."

# # #


	7. Chapter 7

**-Chapter 7-**

It was almost five o'clock in the evening before William was satisfied enough to let Mr. Napoli leave. Coming out of the interview room, he saw that Henry and George were in the inspector's office, clustered in front of an easel. William had wanted to touch base with Julia about matching the message spike with Mr. Washington's wound. His wife came back to the morgue to finish the autopsy, but unfortunately throughout the rest of the day she and William were never free at the same moment. He peeked into his office—there was no folder on his desk, so she had not been by to drop it off. He wondered if she delivered it to the inspector, so he went over to where the three men were conversing animatedly. William saw that Brackenreid had made a list of crimes and appeared to be trying to fit them to George's magazine codes. William had already "decoded" several of the magazine "plots" on his own chalk board, and was mildly interested in what similarities could be found.

Inspector Brackenreid welcomed William in. "Ah, Murdoch, we have found your elusive Miss Pigeon. She is actually one Meira Toiba…" The inspector stumbled over the pronunciation, "who has been using the library under a false name and address. Crabtree here says Toiba means "Dove" in Yiddish, that language they speak in the Ward. She was hiding in plain sight as it were. Just anglicized her name."

"Excellent work, constables. What else do you have on her?" William asked.

Higgins started, "Well. Sir. When we went to find her the first time, we were told there was no one by that name who lived there. Taking your advice that the cousin probably signed in for the sewing circle under her own name and address, we matched that girl to the address we had gone to before."

"A neighbor, who is not of the Hebrew persuasion, told us that a girl matching the description we were looking for was at the next house over." George looked apologetic. "We knocked on the door but no one would answer. We are pretty sure the family is home, as it is their Sabbath and the neighbor says they are a very sober, strict family. They never leave from sundown on Friday to sundown on Saturday except for religious observance, and don't mix with anyone but their close family. Do you really think she is a suspect? I know the girl, or at least have seen her…"

"She gave a false name and address to the library and is the only one who disappeared from view right after the murder. All the rest of your group couldn't wait to get in here to talk—except her. Go back and get her, you two. That will be the quickest way to sort this out," the inspector was already peeved the girl was not more forcefully sought the first time, religious sensibilities or not.

William stepped into the discussion. "I don't think that would be wise, sir. It is Shabbat, and by your description they are observant, possibly Orthodox Ashkenazi Jews. If the family objects they will close ranks or even send her away, so we will have a difficult time getting at the truth, along with risking the girl's reputation or standing in the community unnecessarily. What if I took Julia with me as a sort of chaperone? That might make things easier."

# # #

Talking with Miss Toiba was anything but easy. William found a reference book for official sundown time, so he and Julia waited until the proper hour to call on the house, "when three stars were in the sky," about 7:15 pm for the close of Shabbat. However the girl's father was adamant that a mistake had been made and without a warrant or legal mandate his daughter was not going to speak with the police, female chaperone or not. Ten extra minutes of negotiation, argument and logic produced no results, leaving Julia and her husband on the side walk, with William considering perhaps the inspector's more forceful instincts had been right. The Toiba residence was on a corner lot, the side of the home running along the side street, with the back yard abutting a similar yard for what was identified as the "cousin's" house. The constabulary carriage was tied up along this side of the street. William was helping his wife up and in when they heard a loud cough once, then twice. Looking around, they saw a ground floor window opening, and a small female figure standing in it, with her back turning to the street. She coughed again, and motioned with her hand. William and Julia looked at each other, and he helped her down and they walked over.

"Miss Toiba, I assume?" William asked. He saw her bonneted-head nod. As far as he could tell, she wore an excellently made, dark blue dress, covering her neck and arms, and her hair was completely obscured by her head covering. He gave Julia a look and then shrugged. "I am Detective William Murdoch of the Toronto Constabulary, and this is Dr. Julia Ogden. We are here to ask you some questions about the death of the Normal School librarian, Miss Victoria Morgan."

Her voice was high but firm, with the merest suggestion of an accent. "Yes. I heard." It seemed she might have smiled. "Dr. Ogden, I will speak with you. I am, sorry, but I cannot speak with your companion, the detective. My father would not approve and it would not be proper for me to be in the company of a man who is not immediate family. My father does not know I am speaking to you and if I can I would like to keep it that way. I relented when I heard you, a woman, accompanied him, but for propriety I cannot look at him and do not wish to have to lie to this to my father or my family. I love my father very much and do not wish to upset him or disgrace my family." She paused and squared her narrow shoulders. "Now. How can I help you?"

He was impressed at her straightforward manner, and thought about a way around the dilemma she presented. Not knowing how much time they had for one of the oddest interrogations he ever conducted, he decided he would get right to the point. "Dr. Oden, perhaps you could ask the questions we need answers for?"

Julia was intrigued and after conferring silently with William, she nodded. "Miss Toiba, the police have information that a piece of paper which likely came from one of your writing journals figures prominently in her murder. Can you tell us anything about how it might have come into her possession?"

"No" she answered right away. "However, I could have lent the paper to another writer. They had been so kind to me when I had nothing it seemed fair to return the favour if I could."

William nodded. He whispered to Julia, "That answer matches Mr. Napoli's recollection of getting writing paper from someone in the group. Please ask her about Miss Morgan."

Julia moved on to the next part. "Can you tell me the last time you saw Miss Morgan?"

They saw her hesitate, and take a deep breath before answering. "I saw her Monday, about 12:30 pm or a little later. She was angry because she found out I had not used my real name or address when checking out books—one was overdue and she sent a letter that came back to her. When I came in to return the book it she was quite upset with me and demanded that I tell her my true name and address, and threatened that if I did not I could never come back to the library."

"I see. Is that then why you did not return to either the writing group or handwork classes?" Julia asked. William wondered if that was motive enough for murder.

"No, actually. I...I have been working every way I could think of to make money. I… I want to go to college, and to do that I need to buy my dowry, not end up in an arranged marriage. I am a good girl, Dr. Ogden. I love my family and I am true to my faith, but I will be nineteen in a few weeks and want to live in this modern world. I have been making a little money reading and writing letters for women in my community, helping with translations in Polish or German to English, and a little for business, as well as submitting articles and stories anywhere I could for the last three years. In fact I have written and published almost forty pieces. I was trying to do handwork to bring in money for my family as well as myself. Oh, but the writing was more interesting…and pays better. I thought it would take forever but… well, I wrote a story for the _Star_ and it is going to be printed…oh not under my name of course. But I will get the $75.00 prize and with that I can choose my own path." She sounded proud and excited. "You can verify that with the magazine if you like; the story is titled _Mystery of Tides_ under the name 'Mason Stark.'" Meira turned her head in profile, and asked shyly. "Are you really _the_ Dr. Julia Ogden? Do you know I want to study the sciences, biology or chemistry, maybe even go to medical school? I think you are an inspiration, doctor. I am so pleased to make your acquaintance."

"And I, yours, Miss Toiba," Julia offered, wondering if she would ever get to see this remarkable young woman face to face. She was about to go on when William touched her arm. He brought her away from the window to speak privately.

"Julia, we need to know where she was when Miss Morgan was assaulted. And she is not in the clear," he whispered, "for motive or her whereabouts," he made a pointed gesture to the window.

Julia thought about how to frame the next questions, and went back to the window. "Miss Toiba. You have been hiding a great many things from your family. It would seem to me that being found out, or having your future plans destroyed would be motive for making sure Miss Morgan did not tell on you. Where were you Monday night?"

"I was here, Dr. Ogden. My family keeps a tight watch on us, as you found out. I go nowhere without my cousin or a family member."

Julia spoke softly but firmly, remembering her own escapades with her sister Ruby when they were girls. "Young lady, you know that is not absolutely true. You went to the library on your own and you manage to insert yourself into that writing group – and by your behaviors at the moment - an open window where you could go in or out unnoticed, you just undermined your own alibi."

Julia heard the Meira gasp, and saw her clutch her mouth. She looked critically again at the slight figure with her back to the window and then to William. "One moment. Detective, do you recall what I said about height or perhaps size being irrelevant for Miss Morgan's death?" He nodded so she continued. "Miss Toiba, how tall are you?"

"Why?" the girl asked.

"Please, just answer the question. It is hard to judge with you being inside the house, and taking into account your bonnet and shoes…. but I am guessing no more than five feet, perhaps less? And I am guessing less than one hundred pounds?" Julia waited for the answer, but has seen and weighed enough corpses in her time to have a good sense of judgement in these matters.

The girl paused, perhaps embarrassed, before speaking again. "I am not absolutely sure, but I am about four feet nine and a half inches and about ninety pounds. Why is that important?"

William wanted to know the same answer. "Detective, Miss Toiba is too small to have wielded the first blow—an _average_ sized woman perhaps, but there is a lower limit of possible height, and this girl is not a physical match for someone who could have hit Miss Morgan in the necessary way at the necessary angle," Julia stated firmly.

While that was flowing through the detective's brain, shifting and changing theories, Miss Toiba spoke up. "It seems you want to know who had conflicts with Miss Morgan? Perhaps it is nothing, but I did hear Miss Morgan mutter at length about how she was going to have to have a talk with Mr. Sebastian Fowler about his choice of reading material—she thought it unhealthy and morbid to be looking up so many ways to kill people, but I suppose that is just research for his writing. They were arguing about it as I was leaving, about 12:40 pm or so, something about poison."

# # #

William drove the carriage carefully but quickly back along the most direct route to the station house, while he and Julia discussed the cases. He looked at his pocket watch by streetlight, suddenly reminded he had promised to take Julia to the Burlesque Theatre tonight, their plans and the time having completely escaped him. When he tried to apologize, she put a hand on his knee and laughed good-naturedly. "William, I am quite sufficiently distracted this evening, and besides I am still having a night out with you, after all…" She kissed his cheek, and said lightly, "The theatre will not be going anywhere…"

He understood he was not off the hook about satisfying Julia's curiosity about the Burlesque, but happened to agree a good case _was_ rather stimulating… They considered a new overlap between the murders in the person of Sebastian Fowler, but it still bothered William. "George is right, Julia, I don't believe in coincidences, but it is equally important to avoid forcing connections where none actually exist."

"And you said that Henry speculated someone may have planted the letter, or planned to have Mr. Fowler find Mr. Washington's body, as a sources of misdirection," Julia was turning an idea over in her mind. "William, if it _is_ the same person, a sequential killer essentially, the problem is that there is no common thread between the murders—certainly not that we can recognize. No similar weapon or circumstances, no messages, no mutilations…The victims could not be more dissimilar: a European woman and a man of African descent. The hallmarks of that sort of killer are missing in this case, unless the similarity is use of some kind of misdirection, and that seems rather weak…"

William sighed, acknowledging his wife was correct. In his mind he gathered his chalkboard, the inspector's notations from the easel in the office, and his interviews with Mrs. Talbot and what Miss Toiba just told them, coalescing into a concept. William took Julia's hand in excitement and explained the background rapidly to her.

"Perhaps we have a possible motive for Mr. Fowler to kill Miss Morgan: what if she accused him of being responsible for poisoning the dogs? What if he did do that? A month or so ago the magazine specified the method of murder for the submitted story must be poisoning." William looked at Julia, and saw she was thinking about that possibility as well.

Julia sat up in the carriage as it bumped along. "William, tell me again what the magazine required as plot elements for this month's story…" She hoped there was enough constabulary manpower to do quickly what she had in mind.

# # #


	8. Chapter 8

**-Chapter 8-**

Despite the late hour and having had no sleep, George and Henry had not gone home at end of shift, but were still in the bullpen eating a late supper that Miss Bloom had brought by when she learned her new beau would not be attending the evening performance. She was just leaving as William and Julia arrived to the station house, and greeted the couple pleasantly, making another invitation to enjoy her stage show some evening. Julia made a point of saying she and William would be delighted to take her up on the offer, and soon. William sensed that the remaining friction between George and Henry had been replaced with friendly banter, which William took to mean that Miss Bloom had charmed Henry as well; he was grateful for things returning to normal between the friends, but did not quite understand what influence Miss Bloom seemed to have on other people… _I suppose it is just lost on me_ …. he grumbled to himself.

Setting his meal aside, George stood immediately and motioned William over. "Detective," he said, "the inspector suggested we stay on and help if there was anything else to be done tonight. In addition, he had us make some phone calls for you. Did you know that Mr. Fowler works for the Frederick Harcourt law firm, which is retained by the Granger family? He was sent out to the estate to do some work for them? That means he did know, or likely could know where Miss Morgan lived…."

William nodded, hearing another piece of evidence fall into place. "George, do you think you can contact one of the partners at Frederick Harcourt and ask them more about their law clerk, Mr. Fowler? His behavior, and can they confirm his whereabouts on Monday? Explain the circumstances and I'm sure they will cooperate."

Henry joined them. "Already done sir. It seems he has been erratic as of late, the quality of his work has been suffering. He was supposed to be taking depositions on Monday but was late to one and rushed through the second."

"I still want you to call someone from Frederick Harcourt, now, tonight. This time I want to know if they use a particular sort of paper, and pen or ink in their office. I know some do as a way to identify genuine documents from potentially fraudulent ones…Get me the exact makes, product names, please. "

"What are you thinking, sir?" George asked.

"I am thinking we need to talk again with Mr. Fowler, gentlemen. Instead of inviting him here, I believe we should go to visit him in his rooms at the Windsor. But first I need you to do two more things. Get me Judge Gaffney on the telephone for a warrant and bring that 'love letter' out again, paying pay more attention to those odd smudges, and compare that to this statement…"

By the time William and Julia explained their theory of the crime to Henry and George, all four of them were re-energized and in agreement: William and Julia would approach Mr. Fowler and get him out of his room while Henry and George searched it. William was grateful that the other three were willing to go along with the plan, mindful that if they were wrong, Mr. Fowler with his legal acumen and connections had the wherewithal to cause a huge stink, with the backlash falling squarely on them. William hesitated to call the inspector, thinking that if he did not know he could be held blameless, however Julia convinced him it was wise to do so. He called Brackenreid at home, explaining what he had in mind, while bracing for and argument that never came. Over the telephone line the inspector sounded, instead, rather encouraging. "I think you are on to something Murdoch. But are you sure you don't want him in our interview room?"

"No, sir, I think we want him to feel relaxed and off guard. If we are right, we will find the proof in his rooms or on his person where we can act on it immediately."

Before ringing off, the inspector only said, "Just be careful. There is a lot at stake, for both of us," obviously alluding to the possibility of advancement in the constabulary. William set his mind on the problem, and then with his warrant in process, the four of them set their plan in motion. What confounded William the most was the "Why?" His natural curiosity was burning in his mind in a most uncomfortable way. The whole thing was so bizarre that if anyone but Julia suggested it he would have thought them mad…

# # #

William made sure the cocoa was ordered before calling Mr. Fowler on the telephone and inviting him to have a conversation in his and Julia's suite. Taking her suggestion, he made sure to add some off-hand, but flattering comments which prompted Fowler to immediately accept, saying he would come right up. Julia and he agreed on a signal to warn each other if they felt endangered, and William had his handgun with him, just in case. George or Henry would be searching Fowler's room as soon as the warrant arrived and the other would be standing by in case of trouble.

Julia greeted the law clerk at the door, as if it was a normal, social occasion. She wanted to observe him closely and help William guide the interaction as needed. "Mr. Fowler I assume? Please come in. William? Your guest has arrived."

William came over, shook the man's hand in greeting and introduced Julia. He ushered them to the sitting room, indicating a chair at the dining table were fragrant cocoa was steaming from a large carafe. Julia poured the cocoa and as the social niceties were observed, Julia was making her own evaluation of William's suspect. He appeared outwardly to be quite normal. However, Julia knew from her psychiatric experience that it often can take at least 20 minutes of sustained conversation for signs of mental disturbance to start slipping out, since even the most mentally ill individuals have the capacity to cover up their problems as a defense mechanism. She set a mental clock for the 20 minute mark and sat back, allowing William to lead the conversation. Eventually Mr. Fowler's urge to talk about the case and himself took over.

"Detective," he asked, "why am I here? Do you have more questions about how I discovered the body? I am very curious about how your investigation is coming along, and I do think it is helping me with my writing. I see why George has such a leg up on the rest of us, being a police officer. Unfair, really, to have all that inside knowledge." Fowler extracted a notebook from his inside jacket pocket, which was stuffed with scraps of paper. He flipped to a clean page and took out a pencil.

William made a glance towards Julia and began. "Indeed, one might think so. However, we need your help Mr. Fowler. You know, this murder has been so very vexing. Most murderers are impulsive. Often not much planning is involved in the killing, and usually even less with the "getting away with it" part. Fairly inelegant all and all. The general public is getting some vague ideas about finger marks, or physical evidence from those detective and mystery stories such as you write, but they generally get it all wrong, don't you find? It used to be that just criminals sat around and thought up how to commit crimes, now it is you writers. The truth is most criminals, most people for that matter, don't know much about the science of forensics. There is chemistry, and biology, entomology even physics and mathematics that go into solving a crime in these modern days. There is even a developing new science of the psychology of criminal acts. I wonder if the constabulary can learn something from you as a writer, since you spend as much time thinking up crimes as criminals do—even more perhaps, because it seems you spend more time on your writing than they do on a crime."

Fowler nodded vigorously, a smile growing on his face as he compulsively took notes while William spoke. The detective added another dash of flattery. "Constable Crabtree tells me your stories have showed considerable improvement- your details are exceptionally vivid. I am not much of a writer, you see. I write mostly dry reports, similar to what you do at your occupation as law clerk I assume. We must stick to the facts—no flights of fancy in our work, eh? But I understand you have found quite the niche for yourself with your writing. How do you achieve that?" William did not expect a confession, merely to set the stage.

Fowler put a self-effacing yet coy smile on his face. "Now, detective, I could not possible give my muse away…" William saw the man's skin was pinker and his eyes brighter.

As planned, Julia put on a pleading tone. "Oh, I was hoping you could read your story to us. After all, what is a writer without an audience who can appreciate the work?"

"Oh, no I couldn't – it is not finished…." William and Julia could both tell he actually wanted to share the story, if only he were prompted. It took no effort at all to persuade him to relate a synopsis of the story, referring to the draft contained in his notebook that he turned over page by page, allowing William and Julia to see the writing on a jumble of mismatched paper. Fowler fairly gushed in his excitement about producing a perfect crime.

William shifted back to Mr. Washington's death. "Well. I did ask you here to discuss more of the details about you finding Mr. Washington's body. You have been here at the Windsor about a week or ten days, is that not so? How well did you know Mr. Washington?" William inquired.

"Not well. His duties overlapped my return to my rooms on perhaps three occasions, that is all." Fowler sipped his cocoa contentedly.

"Let's go over your statement again. You said you came in at around 1:25 or 1:30 am and found Mr. Washington dead behind the lobby desk."

"Yes. Poor man." Fowler agreed.

"And you noticed him on the floor? You never went behind the counter, you just knew he was dead."

"Yes."

William continued. "Your very last story, the one you labelled the perfect crime. Your story is remarkably similar to the details of this crime, don't you think?"

Fowler did not hesitate. "But all the writers who used the plot clues this month will write something similar and I have been following your investigation closely. Why shouldn't I use something as exciting as a murder in which I was involved?"

Julia heard the verbal slip and shot William a look.

"But what are the odds their stories will be so exactly close to what we know about the night clerk's death? Things you theoretically could never have directly observed. I noticed your story is not finished." William spoke in a slightly dismissing tone.

Fowler reacted strongly. "Yes! Because I crafted the perfect crime, I cannot as yet figure out how my detective will solve it. I wrote myself quite into a box."

There was a knock on the suite door and Julia excused herself to answer it. She immediately come back with a large envelope and set it down without comment and resumed her seat at the table and an attentive attitude towards Mr. Fowler. She nodded nearly imperceptibly to William.

"May I?" William asked to see the notebook as if to admire the creative genius who produced the words within. Fowler reluctantly gave it over, desire to be praised winning out. Once the journal was in his hands, William returned to his topic. "Let's go back again—By the way it was very thoughtful of you to provide notes of your observations. Usually witnesses are poor historians, get details wrong, or are too nervous to collect their thoughts. You notes, on the other hand are clear, succinct, detailed, written in a remarkably even hand."

"Why thank you, detective. I pride myself on accuracy." Fowler drained the chocolate.

"I see. So, in your statement, you say you never went behind the counter?" He tapped the journal and then unpacked a manuscript Henry found in Fowler's room from the envelope Julia brought in. Fowler only gave it a blank stare. William raised his voice a notch, putting some confusion in his words. "Then how is your notes for your story here, were written with the pen and ink only found behind the counter? We have matched them, the nib of the Hotel pen makes a very distinctived mark." Fowler continued to stare, eyes shining and slack-jawed. William looked at Julia who nodded firmly. "I think I can prove that you wrote your supposed statement about finding Mr. Washington's body, before he ever died, wrote it in fact at your office desk." William continued to tick off the facts. "You set fire to your own lodgings so you could come here to the hotel, did you not? Mr. Fowler, I believe you killed young Jeffry Washington and watched him die, writing notes about it before calling an alarm, then merely pretending to find him." William was used to suspects displaying all sorts of reactions to being accused of murder, from anger, to fear to bravado, but Sebastian Fowler's reaction was unique and rather chilling.

Writing furiously, Fowler held up one hand as if to slow the detective down so he could capture every word. "Marvelous, detective, simply marvelous—may I borrow more paper? How did you connect me to the crime? I have to know—I was sure I had every detail perfect. There had to be something that I missed. I had no idea how this would turn out, but I just knew that if I could get you involved you would be able to solve it for me—I was wrong to taunt you that way, you _did_ know it was me, you could feel that, right? …I was just so worried-it was too perfect and I was stuck…A mystery story is no good if there is no way to solve it. George Crabtree was right, you are as good as your reputation…"

As Sebastian Fowler, literally, madly, scribbled, William experienced a sickening sensation that a good, innocent man was killed not only to merely satisfy this unhinged writer's obsession with a story, but only as a device to have the killing right where William would be bound to investigate. He felt that made the young night clerk's death even more senseless and it weighed heavily on William's conscience. When he spoke his voice was heavy. "Mr. Fowler, you killed Miss Morgan too, didn't you? She was going to bring you to the attention of the authorities on suspicion you were behind a rash of poisoning of animals, mostly dogs, weren't you?" Fowler never answered and the writing never stopped.

# # #

-Epilogue-

Late Saturday Night

With their detective's thanks for a job well done, George and Henry took Sebastian Fowler, William's interview notes, and the evidence to Station House No. 4 where Fowler was to await a Monday morning arraignment. The constables appeared to have repaired any breach in their friendship, as evidenced by returning to their usual bickering as they wrested the law clerk into a police wagon, followed by an invitation from George to treat Henry to the midnight show at the Burlesque if they hurried along. William telephoned Inspector Brackenreid as soon as the arrest had been made, receiving praise for solving both murders quickly and an agreement that the two constables deserved some overtime pay.

Finally, Julia persuaded William he could do all the remaining paperwork tomorrow or Monday and that since he hadn't slept more than two hours in the last twenty four, it was time for rest, by helping him remove his jacket, vest and shirt so she could get at his skin. _Julia can be persuasive,_ William thought, whilst she dug her hands into some aching knots in his shoulders and he permitted a groan of pleasure to escape. As she worked on him his gaze drifted to the scale model of the house he designed, which was currently at the end of their bed in the space Roland's crib once occupied. Recent events made him more certain than ever that life was short and there were no guaranteed outcomes, so the right thing for their futures was going to be to move ahead with a house and family.

He was exhausted, yet felt as if a current was buzzing through him, expecting sleep might be elusive. William seldom gave much thought to _exactly_ _why_ his wife knew so much about the human body, but if he did it would probably not matter to him; instead he gave himself over to luxuriating in her expert attentions to his anatomy, her fingers knowing exactly the origin and insertion of musculature to produce blissful release of tension as she slathered arnica liniment on him.

William sought her opinion, since they were still talking over the case. "So you believe his motive was to become a better writer? To get published? That seems to be to be…well, _insane_!"

"Didn't you tell me the magazine specified the motive had to be pride? Pride comes in many disguises. Besides, how is what he did so different from the scientific method of direct observation and description of phenomenon?" She paused to add an elbow to a particularly tight spot in his upper back. "I believe you burned down, wasn't it a _shed…_ when you were a lad, because you wanted to see what happened?"

William winced. "I was not trying to burn the shed down, I was investigating the properties of refractive of lenses…"

Julia laughed lightly. "My point, actually. The shed was collateral damage, a side-effect of your experiment. To answer your question—no I don't think he is mad in the sense that he is so disturbed he will dodge being hanged for his crimes. Sometimes we wonder if, psychologically speaking, the perpetrators _want_ to be caught-that is certainly something we have seen before." She managed to say this without a quiver in her voice or a memory surface, and felt briefly satisfied that it was so. "As for Mr. Fowler, he was explicit in wanting to be caught this time. He thought he created the "perfect crime" story, so perfect that even in his own mind he could not find a way for his fictional detective to solve the murder. He compulsively needed someone else to rescue his story so he could finish it."

William puzzled over that. "Ironically, if he had not put that odd page suggesting a romantic entanglement in Miss Morgan's house, he might have indeed gotten away with both murders. No one suspected he killed Mr. Washington, precisely because his death was random, not tied to a rational motivation."

"I think it was part of his compulsion: he had to do things the way the magazine codes dictated. I believe you will find he used a scenario for killing Miss Morgan he had already practiced for a previous story which had included the motive for murder being to cover up a crime—in his case poisoning of animals, and an attempt at cover up who did the murder, which in his case he stretched to putting the blame on someone else." Julia finished rubbing in the sandalwood-and-sage-scented lotion along his collar bone. "He also had to finish the story in the allotted time frame with a satisfactory conclusion."

"The inspector speculates that there are some unsolved assaults and other crimes that may tie back to Mr. Fowler's need for direct experience before he could craft a tale." William was going to go over the law clerk's notes and manuscripts to make comparisons.

Julia wiped her hands and gave him a kiss on his cheek. "I think Mr. Fowler will have plenty of time to write as much as he wants while he is in jail. Perhaps he will use that experience in one of his tales." She came around to face him, satisfied he looked better than before she started her ministrations.

William flexed his arms and shoulders, and smiled up at his wife. "Thank you Julia, that was wonderful." He remembered the small present he acquired for her, and that tomorrow was Sunday when they could sleep in a bit before he went to church.

He reached over and into the inside pocket of his jacket and took out a booklet about five by eight inches in diameter. He made his voice take on a teasing aspect. "Julia, do you remember those erotic stories you liked so much from Ettie Weston's collection?" He waved the pages enticingly in front of her. "I so happen to have a new one that I thought you might like to read…"

Julia's face broke into a wicked smile and she lunged for the chapbook immediately. "William! How delightful. You do surprise me…ooohh, and Ray Pemme no less." She draped herself suggestively over his side. "How magnificent. Where ever did you get this? Perhaps we can read together, that is if you are not _too_ tired…?"

 ****END****

 **Author's Notes: Thank you Maureen Jennings and the show writers for allowing us to play in your world.** Confessions: _I appropriated Madeira Place from an old Toronto Map map—does not seem to exist anymore; A "Normal School" was what they called Teacher Preparation Colleges/schools; I also appropriated Branksome Hall without permission._

 **Dear Reader: Thanks for joining in the fun…I hope you liked this one. I try something new in each story…my inspiration this time was to try first person perpetrator point of view - and then to have a meta-story within the mystery, as an** _ **homage**_ **to other MM FF authors—a writer writing about writers writing. I actually used the conceit: I rolled a dice to tell me the gender of perpetrator and victim and if they knew each other or were strangers, if the body was going to be hidden, if the bad guy was going to run away etc, and to identify means, motive and opportunity, then I wrote a story to fit the parameters that were randomly generated. I can't imagine this idea is completely unique to me, but I have never seen or heard of it before so I claim independent origination from my own twisted brain! I have been doing this for a year now, and have a blast doing it, getting to know some of you and honestly appreciate your encouragement and correspondence—it's an incentive to keep doing it. About a hundred or so of you read my stories these days, so it means a lot when you write back. Please write/review/comment….all feedback is welcome and helps me write better stories. I will respond!**

 **A special thank you to my fellow/sister writers who so generously agreed to "play" along with this one: Voltaire, I'dBeDelighted, Fallenbelle, RomanticNerd and Enlightenedskye-heartfelt appreciation to each of you. I ended up writing a different story than I intended, because I just had too much fun playing with "your" characters. R.N. gets extra kudos for another story rescue—and allowing me to quote from "Thunderstorms." Anything I got right about early 20** **th** **century Orthodox Ashkenazi customs is due to E.S.; errors are mine alone for dramatic license. Thank you as always to "Dutch" who has been persuaded to read each of the stories and gives generously of valuable time to an often cranky writer.**


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